


The Tournament

by irenesadler



Category: Thronebreaker: The Witcher Tales (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Action, Drama, Duelling, Established Relationship, F/M, Feminism, Humor, Light Angst, Local Government, Male-Female Friendship, Mystery, Politics, Post-Canon, Romance, Secret Identity, Slice of Life, Sports, Tournaments, Women In Power, dubious coping methods, management techniques
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-15 11:41:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 30,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28562952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irenesadler/pseuds/irenesadler
Summary: or, "Sir Reynard and the Red Knight"Gascon has a series of terrible ideas. Meve proves again that violence can solve (most) problems. Reynard cleans up the mess.
Relationships: Meve/Reynard Odo
Comments: 25
Kudos: 27





	1. Sir Reynard Plans a Tournament

**Author's Note:**

> sources:  
> almost everything* about tournaments in this that feels authentically medieval came from [ this source](https://www.princeton.edu/~ezb/rene/compare.html), a translation from original french of _King Rene's Tournament Book_ , a period how-to guide about (surprise) holding tournaments. several lines are slightly modified direct quotations; which ones should be pretty obvious in context. the book is not very long and pretty readable, if someone reading this goofy story about swords and love is as much of a giant nerd as I am and wants to look thru it.  
> i actually started writing this bc i got too excited about this primary source and then it just kept on getting longer and longer.  
> (*except for any stuff re: the specific tactics of jousting, which is probably mostly based on vague memories of exposition on that subject from TH. White's novels.)

_“Hear Ye, Hear Ye, Hear Ye_

_Let all princes, lords, barons, knights and squires of the marches of Lyria, Rivia, Hawkesburn, Spalla, Scala, Dravograd , and all others of whatever marches that are in this kingdom and all other kingdoms, who are not banished or enemies of the queen our lady, know that on the Tenth of October, in Spalla, there will be a very great festival of arms and a very noble tourney with maces of one measure and rebated swords, in appropriate armor, with crests, coats of arms and horses covered with the arms of the noble tourneyers, as is the ancient custom.._ _”_

_“Of which tourney the captains are the very noble and powerful princes and my very redoubted lords the Duke Brossard defendant and the appellant Baron of –“_

The Queen held up an armored hand, stopping the herald’s recitation.

It was the fourth of October, and she was in the field; rumor had it that she could be found near Hawkesburn, hunting wolves in the forest, or, perhaps, tailing a wyvern, but they were false and she was actually in Scala, drawing highwaymen from the woods by night. The confusion was no doubt responsible for the message’s lateness in delivery; said short notice might have been at least partially responsible for the scowl that came over her features on its arrival and her decision to stop its delivery halfway through.

“Is there anything more?” she asked the herald.

“Yes, I – also,” the herald added, obviously flustered by the interruption, “My lord Brossard wishes to know if Sir Reynard Odo might attend as a judge and adviser, as his own master of arms is not too well read in these, uh, matters.”

“No, naturally not,” Sir Reynard, sitting his horse beside her, commented in a low voice; Meve smiled darkly and said nothing. The Duke’s master at arms was, like the Duke himself, an ex-outlaw, but, unlike Gascon, he was illiterate.

“Shall I wait on your reply, Your Majesty?” The messenger asked, after a long moment of silence. Meve glanced sharply at him, prepared to comment on his impatience, noticed that he was only slightly older than her own younger son - hardly of age to be out of his mother’s sight, really - and moderated the tone of her response somewhat.

“Yes,” she said, casually. Reynard glanced from her to the youth, waiting as she considered; the herald fidgeted, but kept his mouth shut.

“How far from the Duke’s lands are we?” she asked him, finally.

“Ten hours or so, given a clear night,” Reynard answered, with a glance toward the cloudless afternoon sky. The moon was just past full, and they had traveled with a small warband, all mounted. “Less, should we leave the wagons behind.”

“Very well,” she said, turned back to the dusty youth, mouth open, and closed it again as she reconsidered whatever she had been about to say.

“What’s your name, sir?” she asked him.

“Ethan, ma’am,” the herald stammered, bowing awkwardly, “I’m a squire.”

“You’ve done well,” she said, “Go and get something to eat; the quartermaster will see to it, and then you shall ride back with us – perhaps see a little action along the way, gods willing.” 

The herald bowed again as she rode off without further discussion; Reynard pointed the youth toward the back of the column and followed her, a faint smile crossing his face.

She brooded in silence for the rest of the afternoon; only as the moon began to rise in the northeast did she break out of her reverie, to order the two wagons, the first packed with goods and the second with armed men, away ahead of the rest of the column. They rumbled slowly off into the blue twilight; as she waited the agreed-upon five minutes with the rest of the warband, she spotted Ethan in company with the rest and snarled quietly to Reynard, “A tournament, _now,_ for gods’ sake; what is Gascon thinking of?”

“I doubt he sees it the way you do,” Reynard replied, almost inaudibly, looking thoughtfully at the rising moon, “He doesn’t think of such things, much.”

It was clear, however, that Meve was in no mood to be gracious about their friend’s personal flaws; she set her lips into a flat line and said no more as the column moved on.

It crossed her mind that a fight might brighten her mood somewhat, as the triple notes of the agreed-on signal drifted through the chilly night air from somewhere up ahead on the road. The cavalry descended on the wagons at all speed, found them surrounded by a number of armed men, and joined the fray with deadly efficiency. Meve battered her way violently into the mess, then spotted the unfortunate herald as he tumbled off his horse; she spurred her own through the crowd, seized him out of danger by the back of his jacket, and carried him some two dozen yards away from the skirmish before dropping him. On turning her charger, she saw the fight was already over. Reynard was directing the capture of a handful of survivors; the soldiers not involved meanwhile nonchalantly stripped the deceased of valuables.

“Congratulations on your victory, Your Grace,” the Count said to her, as she rode up; she stared blankly down at a twisted, bloody man lying dead in the torchlight, breathed in and then out again, and addressed the company with no appearance of inner turmoil:

“Nicely handled; a creditable action, gentlemen,” she said.

They were pleased by her comments, and further so by the known bounties on several of the dead men’s heads. Meve dismissed her own mild disappointment at missing most of the action as Reynard reported, “No casualties; a few minor injuries, thirty killed and eight prisoners. Will we hang them here, Your Grace?”

No, she decided immediately; there were already enough corpses to go around.

“A public execution will serve us better,” she said. “Bring ‘em along in train.”

The smell of livestock, and a lesser stench of cooking fires, floated across the golden trees and through the wooden walls of the Brossard compound, where the tired warband finally halted in the courtyard. Meve left them behind and strode along after the herald, showing no sign of personal weariness; an aggravated soldier pointed them along toward the western gate. Beyond it, on the common land, a crowd of sheep were mixing with a flock of workmen, who were assembling a set of stands, under the unhelpful, but enthusiastic, direction of the lord of the fortress. He caught sight of the Queen at the same moment that everyone else did but, unlike everyone else, neither bowed nor stood, gaping blankly at her.

“Meve!” he proclaimed instead, tone as bright as the morning sun overhead, “Am I glad to see you. Looks like our Ethan found you finally, good, good – well done, lad – but where,” he asked, seizing her hand and shaking it furiously, “ – is your other half?”

“He’s busy,” Meve answered, rescuing her crushed fingers, “We need to talk, Gascon.”

“Oh, sure, naturally; let me just finish up out here, and then – “

“ _Now_ , Brossard,” she said. “And _not_ out here.”

“Oh,” he said, eyeing her stony expression, his enthusiasm faltering, “Well, alright; come on inside, then.”

“First of all,” Meve began, the moment they were behind the closed door of a conveniently empty workshop, “First of all, we’ve captured some bandits; if you’d take custody of them for us, we’d be grateful.” 

“Yes, of course,” Gascon replied, flopping himself into a chair at a table strewn with construction plans; he sat there and watched her warily. Meve nodded, addressed her reply to a half-finished carved coat of arms she’d been examining – “Thank you,” – took a deep breath, and turned to the man. The stern frown on her face had shifted to an exasperated glare.

“Second, Gascon, what the devil is this tournament?”

He blinked, confused, and answered in an uncommonly cautious tone.

“Well, I was given to understand it’s the done thing, in these parts, at this time o’ year. _Especially_ at this time o’ year.”

“Especially _not_ at this time of year,” she interrupted angrily, “ _Why_ could it not have waited a month? Or been held a month before now?”

“Well, a month ago was the haymaking, and after this week’s events it’s th’ apple harvest, which I’m told takes some time to complete and, also, because –“

“Oh, the _apple harvest_ , of course.”

Gascon paused for an unusually long moment after her interruption, then said, “I’d like you to calm down.”

“What?”

“T’ be frank, you’re being a little unreasonable.”

“Well, maybe I’ve been _too_ reasonable lately. Damnit, man; Villem died, a year ago this week, and I’m _not_ in the mood for parties, just now.”

“Oh, I see now. I, uh, I didn’t think of that. Well, you know the tournament’s meant t’ be celebratory; that’s reason the Baron and I thought to hold it,” Gascon said, in his most conciliatory tone.

“To celebrate what, pray tell?”

“Your victory, of course.”

“Some victory,” Meve snarled, “Some damn victory. Villem is _dead._ A lot of other people are, too, as it happens, but _especially_ my son.” 

“I’m sorry,” Gascon replied, somewhat desperately.

“Are you?”

“What? Of course I am. I know what it’s like.”

“How? You can’t.”

The Duke’s appeasing smile vanished; he suddenly leaned forward across the table, sending a cascade of papers sailing onto the floor.

“I lost my parents, remember? My whole family is dead. _I know what it_ _’s like, Meve._ ”

His outburst shocked them both into silence; they stared at each other for a moment, Gascon with a canine snarl on his face and Meve slightly stunned. After a long moment, his expression faded. She cleared her throat and sat down on a convenient stool.

“You want a drink?”

“..yes,” Meve answered, a slight shake in her voice. There was a sawdust-coated bottle on the table; Gascon brushed it off, took a swig, and passed it across to her.

After an awkward silence, she said, “Very well. If a tournament must be held, I’ll not deprive the populace of their fun.”

Gascon’s frown turned to a relieved grin. The workshop door opened as he replied, gratefully, “Good; I’m glad to hear it.”

“Don’t be _too_ glad,” Meve replied. “If a tournament _must_ be held, I’ll be competing in it.”

“Oh,” said Gascon, with an uncertain smile, eyes shifting to the man who walked in, “Uh. Hello, Reynard. Nice timing, as usual. Drink?”

“No,” the knight replied, glancing at the proffered bottle, “For shame, Brossard; it’s not yet ten in the morning.”

“Well,” he replied, eyeing Meve cautiously, “It _is_ a holiday.”

The Count winced slightly as she stared flatly at Gascon; he said nothing in response.

“ _Don_ _’t_ change the subject,” the Queen said to the Duke, apparently unaffected by the vodka, “You’re the defendant lord; will I fight in your cohort?”

He studied her for a moment, at a loss for words, then shrugged, propped his feet up on the table, and said, “Uh, why not? No rule against it, is there, Sir Reynard?”

“Well, I – I don’t believe so, technically,” the knight answered, stiffly. “However, it _is_ , well, unusual.”

Meve raised an eyebrow at him. Sensing danger, Reynard cleared his throat, fixed his eyes straight ahead, and addressed a point in the near distance:

“It’s just, th’ other contestants, on finding out, would likely refuse the field.”

“I see,” the Queen replied snidely, “Because?”

“..as you might guess, because, you’re, well, you aren’t a knight. Or, well, a ‘ _prince, lord, baron, knight or squire._ ’ Not properly, I mean.”

“Oh, is that all?”

Reynard’s face reddened. She turned away from him, arms crossed.

“Seems to me was no matter, on the field of battle,” Meve said, sneering, the scar on her face stretching with the expression. “No matter at all. Well, there’s a way around this, of course, because the Duke has seen fit to invite ‘ _others from whatsoever nations they are, not banished or enemies of the queen, our lady_ ’; it’d an absurd argument, to claim I’m my own enemy or have banished myself. So, all that’s required is – “

“A disguise!” Gascon interjected, grinning, “That’s the proper way.”

“ - quite,” Meve said cooly, altering what she had been about to propose, “Come, Sir Reynard; we’ve armor aplenty, and not all golden. You’re to be a judge of the tourney, are you not? What say you?”

“As you know very well,” he said, frowning, “The tournament _is_ open to such, and disguised entrants aren’t unheard of, although – although hardly typical.”

“Yes, well. I believe th’ usual way is a plain shield, painted black, is it not?”

“Just so.”

“An anonymous knight errant,” Gascon said, his enthusiasm for the intrigue growing, “You know, uh – “

“- of unknown provenance,” Reynard finished, his expression growing painfully rigid. Meve turned back toward him and waited impatiently, her eyebrows raised, until whatever was on his mind broke through his resolve; a faint, victorious smile crossed her face as he added, “But, should you win – “

“ _When,_ _”_ she interrupted.

“Yes, _when_ you win, it’s expected you’d reveal your identity, traditionally, and, well..”

“What?”

“..there will be some displeasure,” he finished.

“I don’t care,” Meve said, flatly.

They stared at each other; her eyes were fixed on his, challenging. Gascon cleared his throat and excused himself, departed with the bottle in his hand. The door closed gently behind him.

“My dear,” Reynard said, the moment he was gone, “I believe I understand _why_ you’re doing this, but what good do you think will come of it?”

“What do you mean?” Meve asked, briefly abandoning her belligerence.

“I mean, do you think it’ll make you feel better about, well, about this tournament, or this particular week? Because, if not – “

“I don’t know,” she interrupted wearily, “It don’t know if it will, or not.”

He stepped forward, placed his hand on her shoulder, and said quietly, “Well. I hope it does, then.” 

It was decided, after an endlessly long tour of the incomplete stands and pavilion, the roped-off site of the lists, a lately erected barn, and the new armory, that Reynard would remain and Meve return, temporarily, to Rivia Castle, to collect a proper set of retainers for a royal visit. Also, of course, to gather the things that a knight would need for a tourney; Reynard waited patiently as Gascon read a list of such items out of a large book, until Meve, still mildly irritable despite a large dinner, finally said, “I _know_ what’s required, man; leave off, if you please.”

“ _Also_ ,” Gascon added, reluctantly closing the tome and gazing at the leather cover, “You’ll need foot servants, and valets.”

“Two are allowed, for a knight; mounted valets with short lances, I mean. You may have as many footmen, armed with blackjacks, as you please,” Reynard noted, helpfully.

“Yes, to protect you, should you be dismounted in the melee, and to hand you your lances and things during th’ individual jousts.”

“Oh, I won’t need them,” Meve replied. “I won’t be jousting, anyway.”

“I really think you should have them,” Reynard said, his genial tone turning serious, “For my own health, if not yours, so I won’t go grey – _greyer_ – worrying about it. Many’s the knight who’s lost his helm in the melee, including myself a time or two, as you know.”

Meve opened her mouth, inclined to argue with him, caught a small shake of his head that indicated he wouldn’t be persuaded otherwise, and yielded with a surly scowl.

“Very well,” she said, “Footmen only, no mounted valets. No, no arguments; I insist. You may choose them yourself if it makes you feel better, Reynard.”

“Actually,” Gascon interrupted, drawing their attention from each other and back to himself, “I had some thoughts, or suggestions, on who’d suit..”

“Look, I’ll take recommendations, from all comers, when I return in a few days,” Meve announced, in a tone that admitted no further discussion of the matter. Gascon grumbled slightly anyhow. Reynard accepted the statement with a resigned shrug, and Meve pointedly changed the subject.

She left before dawn, but Reynard was already awake, poring over sketches of coats of arms with the names of their owners written beneath them. She pulled a cloak on over her armor, kissed the top of his head, and said, “Don’t forget to add me, my dear, under a suitable identity, of course. And try not to argue unnecessarily with Gascon, while I’m gone.” She came back a couple of days later, with a retinue that required far more than two wagons to contain its effects – horses, courtiers, ladies-in-waiting, arms, gifts, guards, and associated necessities. She wore brocade and furs instead of armor, but a broadsword hung from the saddle of her horse. Gascon greeted her with very passable court manners, which appeared to please the harassed-looking Count, although clearly not nearly as much as her return.

Her official arrival was the last she saw of them, or they of her, until late in the evening. Meve, to her annoyance, found herself at loose ends for much of the day. The lord of the castle was furiously busy, and his tournament judges less so but still occupied. Reynard was, accordingly, the first of her co-conspirators to have a moment to spare; the moment turned into several hours, and by the time Gascon made an appearance, the Count had abandoned any plan of returning to his own responsibilities before morning. The Duke found them together, occupying the same chair by the fire and laughing at some private joke. He failed to notice Reynard’s sour look as he flopped, uninvited, into the empty seat across from them and dramatically announced himself exhausted.

“Perhaps you should turn in early, then,” Reynard suggested snidely.

“Not now; we have that presentation thing tomorrow, and I want to make sure _all_ the contenders will be prepared to present their, uh, personal crests,” he said, with a significant look at Meve.

“Yes, yes,” she said, mildly annoyed, herself, by his arrival, “You will note, Brossard, that this is hardly the first tournament I’ve attended.”

He cocked his head curiously.

“As an observer, or otherwise?”

“Shush,” she replied, smirking. “Not the first time Reynard’s snuck in someone in disguise, either.”

“Not at all,” Reynard reflected, nostalgically. “My Lord the king would, on occasion - ah – well, perhaps a story for another time,” he said, as Meve elbowed him gently in the ribs and frowned warningly.

“So, you’ve chosen your footmen, then?” Gascon asked, apparently blind to their private communications.

“Oh, right, I had forgotten about that,” she said. Reynard frowned suspiciously at her; she ignored him and continued, “Yes, I’ll hear your nominations, as I promised. Carry on.”

“Go on then, sir knight,” Gascon said; Reynard rolled his eyes, noted he didn’t have his list with him, but that he thought “Bohault, the cavalryman,” would do, even on foot, and, besides, he named a few men of his own personal company who would serve well and, further, who could keep their mouths shut.

“Yes, yes, all well and good,” Gascon said, and then, not waiting for an invitation, “But, consider this – I have at hand a well-qualified pair, names of Gaspar and Pug, no stranger to brawls of every variety, natural and otherwise, and, besides, unlikely to spread rumor of your true identity, as Gaspar’s a mute, and Pug ain’t much for idle chatter, since she’s a woman herself, but doesn’t wish people to know of it.”

“Oh?” Meve raised a curious eyebrow despite herself. Even Reynard looked interested, instead of annoyed. “So where are these two?” 

“Oh, not far. You know them, in fact – met them very recently – they’re currently locked up in my cells, ever since you pinned them on the high road not a week ago.”

“The highwaymen?” Reynard asked, incredulously, “You can’t be serious, man.”

“Why on earth would they help me, even if they didn’t happen to join in on attacking me the moment they could?” Meve added.

“Well, firstly, in exchange for a pardon, I’d think. Second, because they owe me – were plying their trade on _my_ land, and after all I did for them before the war and after. They were Strays,” he explained, “And so stealing from me is a little rude of them, considering.”

“In that case, they’ve already been pardoned once, and have therefore earned their hanging twice over,” Meve observed.

“Yes, but, this time, I’ll personally guarantee their enduring gratitude and reformation.”

“Hmm,” she said. “Reynard? Your opinion?”

“Well, I think it’s a terrible idea,” the knight said.

“Thank you; well put. Well, Gascon, under the circumstances, I believe I’ll take them, plus, I think, one of Reynard’s men – very well, _two_ , then – Bohault - Bohault _mounted_ , and choose whoever you see fit for the other, Reynard. No, that is as far as I’ll negotiate. Now, onto other matters: you’ll be glad to know Isbel will be here sometime tomorrow; she’ll be pleased to see you both. Now, you’d best go get some sleep, Gascon, as you can look forward to another busy day tomorrow. Goodbye, sir.”

“I love you,” Reynard said, after the Duke had taken the hint and left, and a healthy period of contemplative silence elapsed, “But you are the most hellishly stubborn woman I’ve ever met.”

She smiled smugly and sprawled herself casually across his lap and the arms of the chair before saying, “Oh, I’ll be fine; I can take care of myself, and Isbel will spread confusion among th’ inevitable crowd of noblewomen and their ilk should they get too nosy. You just keep Gascon’s head above water and don’t worry about me.”


	2. Sir Reynard and the Queen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter contains one (1) swear, in case someone reading this needs the warning

A cool, damp breeze had blown thick clouds across the sky by one the next afternoon. At one-thirty, Meve studied two dozen-odd helms, shields, and banners with the rest of the women; the objects were aligned along the edges of an ancient hall that smelled of damp and creaked faintly with the strengthening winds outside. She nothing, but listened to the general talk with an air of gravitas that seemed to make her presence both obvious and irrelevant, like a fine statue:

“Quite the collection they’ve gotten together, here; the Duke and Baron must have planned all this well.”

She remained expressionless, despite the strong urge to roll her eyes.

“The helm with the dog on it, of course, belongs to the Duke; he’s a war hero, did you know?”

“Everyone knows that.”

“He’s handsome, don’t you think? And, I’ve heard, a bachelor.”

“Oh, still? You don’t think it’s because –“

“Oh, no. It’s he just didn’t have the time, what with being an orphan, and the war, and regaining his titles while serving Queen and country; try to dance with him later, my girl, if you can get the chance – “

Meve drifted away, studied a helm with an overwrought-looking stag perched atop it, and considered cluing Gascon in on his female admirers. No, she decided, best not; his ego was better kept in the dark, where it could be ambushed and punctured before it swelled to obscene proportion.

“What is the plain black banner, do you think? Th’ one with the shaggy dark man standing near to it; he’s quite hideous, for a footman. He wouldn’t say, stood in silence when I asked him. Perhaps it’s a squire’s.”

“No; belongs to a knight in disguise. It used to be all the rage, back in my day, but I think it’s a silly thing to do now. I’m surprised there’s no rule against it, but I suppose, if there were, Count Odo would never have allowed it; he’s always been a notorious stickler.”

“Oh. Well, it has to be a nobleman; I wonder who.”

“A hedge knight, no doubt.”

“Maybe he’s a Temerian, or a Nilfgaardian.”

“Don’t be ridiculous; of course he isn’t –“

She hid a smile, cruised along to where Count Odo and his little flock of lesser judges stood in stiff estate, said, “It looks quite nice, an excellent arrangement, my lords,” and left Reynard to his private hell without a trace of sympathy.

“Isbel,” she said, escaping the landed elite of the realm and gracelessly depositing herself in a chair in Gascon’s kitchens, “I don’t believe merely pretending to be ill will answer, in this crowd; I think that old Duchess of – of wherever – is too observant, and also, extremely gossipy. She’s sure to notice, I’m afraid, and sure to talk, whatever happens.”

“If you’d like to be seen to faint, so be it,” Isbel answered, passing her a steaming mug. “I fail to understand why it should be worth it, just so that you may go, incognito, out into the mud the day after tomorrow and earn yet another concussion.”

“No, I didn’t think you would.”

“If this meant to be a ham-fisted distraction from your son’s death, I don’t believe it will help you, really,” Isbel continued, ignoring her interruption. Meve raised an eyebrow over her cup of tea, a warning sign that would have had Reynard considering a change of tactics and stopped Gascon in his tracks, but which had no effect whatsoever on the sorceress’s blunt approach.

“You can’t solve _every_ problem by hitting things; it may work temporarily, but this one will keep coming back, for years. However, I think you know that,” she concluded, and turned to stand, staring at the Queen pointedly. Meve sat for a moment, battling to maintain the superficial annoyance she’d been supporting all week. She lost and was briefly overwhelmed by the deep exhaustion it had been masking. There was a long crack in the bricks underfoot; she sat and stared blankly at it. The sorceress waited.

“Of course I do,” Meve said to the floor, finally. “I know it, you know it, Reynard knows it. The thing is, I don’t think _anything_ will help anyhow; none of this will bring my boy back or – or fix what I did to him – “

She paused; Isbel stood and watched her.

“ – but neither would staying home, or sitting in the pavilion, watching these idiot men hit each other with blunt swords. At least if I’m in the lists, I won’t have to listen to any of these horrible people gossip about it, or, worse, try to be sympathetic. Which is why, near the end of dinner tonight, I need to be, or appear to be, quite ill indeed, but I need to recover before an hour _after_ dinner, because we must all ride away and take an oath to not hurt each other too badly, at least on purpose. Can you do it?”

Isbel sighed and shook her head slightly.

“Yes, of course I can.”

“.. _will_ you do it?”

“It’s already done, my dear,” she said. “Much good may it do you. Finish the tea quickly.”

That evening, the Queen could be seen to grow visibly shaky and sweaty, with dwindling interest in the discussions of her nearest neighbors at dinner. Before the end of the meal, she vanished, with only a short excuse offered, interjected unexpectedly into the appellant Baron’s lengthy report of his latest grandchild’s dozen-word vocabulary; her face was startlingly white. Later, as expected, heralds herded a host of miserable, semi-drunken princes, dukes, counts, barons, lords, knights and squires – and one fully-recovered, sober, Queen – into the lists, where, in the dark and under a roaring downpour, the judges, the Baron, and Gascon Brossard held a swearing-in ceremony at the head of the crowd. Beneath their cloaks and jackets, each drenched attendee appeared an anonymous knight errant, of unknown provenance; the only torches that would stay lit were those located under the dripping awning where the totally inaudible ceremony took place. The assembly, in a body, swore that they too would obey they knew not what oath that the Duke and Baron had just taken, and then, as the wind gusted furiously, broke away to each return to his own personal lodgings.

“Unfortunate weather,” Reynard noted, steaming slightly where he stood in front of the blazing fireplace in Gascon’s private rooms, “But, it may clear before the day after tomorrow; the tournament proper isn’t until then,” he added, his tone hinting at deep inner gloom.

Meve smiled sympathetically at him, returned to scouring at the rust that was already developing on her sword blade, and replied, “On the other hand, even without a helm on, nobody could possibly have recognized me out there, with all the rain. Reynard, this damned thing won’t do; I believe I will have to take a mace if this keeps up. Don’t wince, man, it isn’t as if I’m going to use it on _you._ ”

“Please,” Gascon said to Isbel, nearby, “ _Please_ do me the world’s biggest favor and fix this weather. I swear to give you anything you desire, anything at all within my or Meve’s power, in return.”

Meve stopped scrubbing momentarily and said quietly to Reynard, “It’s October in Lyria; we’ll be lucky if this clears up before th’ end of the month, much less in time for the melee.”

“ – and in any case, this whole event is an absurdity,” Isbel continued declaiming, meanwhile, “If a nice rainstorm will ruin it, so much the better; I hope you may get an ocean’s worth.”

“I believe I’m growing too old for this,” Reynard mumbled. “Have you noticed?”

“Of course not, my dear,” she said, setting the sword down; she wrapped her arms around his shoulders regardless of his wet clothes and kissed him. After several quiet seconds, Gascon cleared his throat pointedly in the near distance and said, “If you don’t mind, Meve: come and talk some sense into this witch, if there’s any to be had, or we’ll _both_ be fighting in the storm come Tuesday. You’d almost think she _made_ it rain, on purpose,” he added, eyeing Isbel with deep suspicion. The sorceress looked back at him impassively; he squinted at her, and then continued, “ _Anyway._ Two more days of this left, and we’re done; this is th’ only time I hold a fucking _tournament_ for the rest of my life, strike me dead if I lie.”

“Gladly,” Reynard mumbled. Meve looked up at him, not hiding that she, at least, was pleased with her scheme’s success. Apparently she smiled at him a little too brightly, as he looked somewhat dazed until she returned her focus to her weapon. He leaned his head back after she sat down again and closed his eyes wearily.

“At least I didn’t have to dance, for once,” she commented, holding the sword up at eye level and examining it closely. “For that we can all be grateful.”

“I like dancing with you,” Reynard replied, opening his eyes again to bask in another sunny smile. Gascon sighed loudly.

“You two are insufferable,” he complained, “I’m going to bed. Although, first: thank you, both, for coming; I know neither of you wanted t’ have anything to do with all this - especially you, Meve - but it would be a disaster without your help, so..”

He trailed off, hand on the doorknob, and shrugged awkwardly; Reynard raised a surprised eyebrow down at Meve and said, politely, “Don’t mention it; was nothing. We’re happy to help.”


	3. Sir Reynard at the Joust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so normally i don't put things on the internet until they are totally or mostly complete. however this thing keeps expanding in size and scope as i realize i can add more goofy sports movie tropes and mildly serious interpersonal drama to it. jury out on whether this is a good thing or not. this means updates will b slower and slower as i draft and rewrite large chunks a bunch of times to get the comedic timing right and fit things together. anyway, thank u for wasting part of ur life reading this if u are.

The rain had, apparently, set in for good by the next afternoon, accompanied by gusting wind that blew water sideways across the ground. As a result, the field for the individual jousts dwindled by the hour until less than a dozen knights remained, but there was no calling the event off. Reynard frowned darkly over the remaining names on the list on his way out into the storm, but said nothing. Meve suspected it was, probably, incompatible with his sense of duty to complain about the weather, but Gascon, who had tried unsuccessfully to get out of the competition, grumbled incessantly under his breath until he too was finally forced out into the downpour. Meve could see them both, or, at least, could see their indistinct shapes in huddled conference with the other combatants, twenty or so yards away from where she sat with the handful of other women who’d turned out to watch the proceedings. She’d assumed most of them, like herself, were there because they were socially expected to appear, but realized she was mistaken as the first match lined up and a middle-aged woman beside her said, of the nearest horseman, “Holds his damned lance like he’s clutching a broom, the ingrate,” and she saw intense, judicious frowns on the faces of the rest.

“Perhaps it’s his first time out,” one of the other women remarked. Meve didn’t bother hiding a flash of amusement and turned her attention to the joust; the knight in question was not, she realized as he was instantly unseated and sat up, helm left behind, a knight at all.

“He’s only a squire,” she said, “His name’s Ethan. He often falls from his horse, like that.”

“They _do_ start them young,” replied her neighbor, casually, which had the effect - perhaps assisted by a sudden wild gust of wind that drove rain into all their faces - of breaking the barrier of rank with the half-dozen other women who were clearly determined to stick it out. All present began a close analysis of the jousts, without the usual degree of customary deference toward the Queen.

“Red armor; not the subtle type,” one remarked of an individual in the next joust; the knight she described easily sent Gascon, and his horse, splashing to the ground. Meve let out a breath she had unconsciously been holding as the horse scrambled upright, narrowly avoiding trampling its rider. The Duke popped back up again and waved merrily to his audience.

“He knows what he’s doing, flamboyant or not,” she observed, watching the same man send several more riders flying in succession. The meet progressed at what might well have been a record-setting pace, under Reynard’s micromanagement. Gascon appeared several more times and unhorsed two of his own opponents, to the general surprise of the onlookers, who had no good opinion of his technical skill.

“Well, I’ve seen _worse_ ,” was the thoughtful judgment of a girl some ten years Meve’s junior as he went down for the last time; she watched his departure from the field with undisguised interest. 

“Reasonably promising,” the older woman agreed, “But has a long way to go if he’s to compete outside this provincial little affair, where the knights were bred up to the sport.”

Meve rolled her eyes and pointedly focused her attention on the last few matches. 

“It’ll be that red knight who wins out,” her neighbor said, matter-of-factly, “You may lay money on it.”

Nobody did, and she was right; they watched him win his final match in three passes, despite a violent shift in the wind that nearly blew himself and his horse off course entirely at the last moment. Meve took careful note of what the older woman had to say about him, as the little crowd of critics waded for the safety of the manor - displayed a habitual tendency to hesitate, before choosing his target, and to over-commit after making his decision at long last, she was told. Later, she searched through Reynard’s papers, with a certain looming sense of the inevitable. On a sheet bearing the heading _Knights-Appellant,_ she found the red knight’s name midway through a list of others, under a drawing of a wide-eyed stag and his coat of arms, and sighed.

“Damn,” she said, to nobody, “He might be good enough to beat me; perhaps I should have competed today after all, for the practice, if nothing else.”

She jumped slightly as Reynard said unexpectedly from the doorway behind her, “Oh, well, skill in th’ one doesn’t necessarily carry to th’ other.” He smirked at her and continued, as if nothing had happened, “Or th’ other way around, for that matter; I shouldn’t worry too much about it.”

“In that case,” she replied waspishly, recovering from her surprise by going on the attack, “We should all be extremely cautious of Gascon in the melee.”

He shrugged at her, not taking the bait on the argument.

“Or that boy, Ethan; he’ll no doubt prove a prodigy, tomorrow,” she added; he then frowned slightly and allowed that maybe it wasn’t _quite_ a universal rule. She relented, taking note of his annoyance with the conversation and his drenched clothes, and strategically redirected his attention to an activity that that required neither.

The Queen handed out several prizes that evening – a bag of gold coins, a diamond, a ruby – but none of the recipients, even the victorious and somewhat richer red knight, had an air of self-satisfaction to equal Reynard’s. He went through the motions of his position with exact correctness, but far less stiffly than usual; Meve watched him secretly and showed surprising signs of enjoying herself. However, the mood didn’t last; Gascon capitalized on the fame and ruby that he’d won by managing to keep his helm on for the entire day by collecting a cluster of interested damsels and then getting extremely drunk. Meve developed a steadily pounding headache, made worse by Gascon’s excess, the unshakable attentions of the red knight, who was clearly smitten, and Reynard’s growing irritation at both. She bore the party as long as it lasted, had Gascon dragged off to bed by Pug and Gaspar at the end, and, having abruptly run out of patience for the day, covertly asked Reynard to deal with the red knight.

He returned from his mission with his good mood restored.

“Well, there’s one problem solved,” he announced. Meve eyed him, decided not to inquire about details, and only mumbled “Thank you,” in response, earning herself a concerned frown; she then insisted that she was, or would be, fine, needing only a good night’s sleep, and changed the subject.

“While you’re solving problems for me, I think I might have another: have you noticed that Gascon has been a little moody, lately?”

He still looked dubious, but accepted the new topic and sat down, considering it.

“Well, yes, I had, but I didn’t like to mention it, busy as we’ve all been. Did you ask Isbel about it?”

“Naturally. She said I should ask _him_ , not her, then turned that all-knowing look she gets - you know th’ one I mean - and I got nothing out of her. No, I didn’t lose my temper, don’t look at me like that. Anyway, I suppose she’s right, as usual, only I don’t expect he’ll tell _me_ anything, even if I ask him outright, and so –“

“- so you’d like me to talk to him about it,” Reynard finished.

“If you don’t mind. I know you’re busy.”

“I’m not _that_ busy,” he said, “ If you think it’s important, I’ll see what I can do.”


	4. Sir Reynard Gives Advice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> side comment: there's a part in Malory's _Le Morte D’Arthur_ (which I read chunks of so i could hamfistedly mirror the language every so often) where one of the knights of the round table disguises himself for a tournament by wearing a dress over his armor. nothing similar happens at any point in this story, i just thought it was funny.

_Had_ Isbel made it rain? Meve thought maybe Gascon was onto something, but knew better than to ask. Regardless, the weather had changed by morning to a chill wind and cloudy sky which warmed to a damp, but rainless, afternoon. Possibly it was pleasant enough for those observing the proceedings and eating roasted nuts; she herself was drenched in sweat and could see only a small, square piece of the world beyond the two-inch thickness of leather, eighth-inch of steel, and heavy coat of dull black paint that separated her head from the outside world. Her view of the day was of pale gray skies, floating colorful banners, and the back of Bohault’s armor directly in front of her.

(“The tourney armor is not quite what you’re used to wearing.” Reynard had advised her, the night before. “It’s heavier and thicker.”

He’d considered the hastily-painted set he’d loaned her, frowning doubtfully.

“I must admit, I’m concerned that a few of these knights might recognize my armor even with the black paint, but will of course know I’m not in it; luckily it will be hard for them to say much about it if you arrive with no time to spare. Of course, a real professional can generally tell who is wearing a set of armor by the way they fight, whatever disguise they may employ, but they’ve never seen _you_ fight, and even if they know my armor, and they know me, they may not figure out the discrepancy before it’s too late; for them, I mean.”

She’d grinned, gap-toothed and wolfish.)

She wasn’t smiling anymore, because of her jangling nerves, but he was right. It was impossible to see much of anything through the helm, much less recognize an individual knight, or realize that someone _wasn_ _’t_ really a knight. The roped-off lists teemed with a shifting, crushing press of horses and people – knights, footmen, valets, and Gascon, visible in the front of the mass, talking to Reynard, although she had no idea what they were saying, between the din of the crowd in the distance and the rattle of armor directly around her.

(“You won’t be able to hear much of anything, what with the crowd and the helm,” Reynard had continued, with a smile that almost matched hers, “It’s easiest to just listen for trumpets. The first you’ll hear are a warning to prepare yourself.”)

She heard a distant blare of instruments through the metal and leather that protected her head; her destrier, a massive bay animal, twitched his ears at the sound and sidled gently away from her neighbors, carrying her footmen and valets along with him like lesser celestial bodies. She sat still as he completed his movement and then stood patiently, unaffected by the din or by the dramatics of any of the horses near him. A veteran, she noted with appreciation; she’d borrowed him, like the armor, from Reynard, and wasn’t sure which of the two she valued more at that moment.

(“The second time you hear horns will be when the melee is over. Once all is in order, they’ll cut the ropes; you’ve seen this done, of course. After that you may fight whoever you come across who is on th’ opposing side. As you aren’t a famous, or infamous, knight, nobody will single you out in particular, and all you need to worry about to succeed is staying on your horse – but you’ve been in plenty of real battles, and you know that. I think you’ll do very well, under the circumstances.”)

The mass of men and animals waited; a drift of wood smoke floated over them and found its way through the little gap in Meve’s visor. Her eyes watered; she battled the urge to sneeze, lost, and, at that moment of weakness, the pack suddenly surged forward, carrying herself and her horse along with it. She juggled her lance and the reins for a moment, then noted the frustrated cant of her horse’s ears as he broke into a slow, heavy trot with the rest of the mass of rattling, encumbered men. It occurred to her that the animal knew more about his business than she did, so she dropped the reins, couched her lance, and knocked down her first attacker by instinct as much as skill. The spear shattered on impact with his breastplate and she continued on her way, dropping the useless splinters and happily shifting to more familiar tactics.

(Reynard’s face had turned unsure again, as he spoke. She suspected he was more nervous than she was, herself.

“- you’ll do very well unless, of course, you fall off, and then it’s anyone’s guess. You fight well on foot, better than I do, in fact, but it’s still best for you to stay mounted; mine will do his best to keep you aboard if he possibly can.”)

With a lance, she was awkward at best, but with a mace, she was perfectly competent. Reynard’s horse needed no guidance, and she battered her way through one, then another, of the defendant knights, as they happened to pass into her narrow view. She smashed through the lance of the first as he tilted at her, turned back after him, shoved him to the ground with her shield, and kept going. The second knight she recognized with satisfaction - he was dressed in red armor and had, seeing her unstoppable approach, moved to block her way. Her horse turned himself obligingly to put her alongside. She swung, experimentally, was easily blocked on his shield, and deflected an answering sword-blow with her own. Her next swing was delivered with the full force of her personal dislike behind it. The hit dented the stranger’s shield and splintered her mace; the head flew off into the air. They paused, staring at the splintered handle of her weapon in mutual astonishment.

(“But _if_ you fall, Meve, you ought to yield; Bohault and th’ others will keep you in one piece. At least, I hope they will,” Reynard added, with a doubtful frown, which he shook off sharply. “Yes, they will, you’ll be fine. However, should you lose your helm-“

“Oh,” she said, taking his hand and steering him away from the armor, “Not to worry; I’ll wear a knit hat to cover my hair, and nobody will notice. Although, I _do_ wish Isbel hadn’t refused to charm the thing so it wouldn’t come off at all, but I suppose that’d be an unfair advantage.”)

The moment was interrupted as someone hit the back of her helm from behind, a clanging blow that crashed her off her horse and into the clinging mud below. Isbel had most definitely caused the rainstorm, Meve reflected distractedly, as someone immediately dragged her up out of the muck and onto her feet. The stolid, middle-aged face of Bohault loomed overhead. He released her as she dragged her sword out of its sheath, and shouted an angry negative at whatever he was saying. She abandoned the horse and her shield, pushed Gaspar out of her way, and strode off in search of a new target, ignoring her ringing ears. Close by, one of her allies was scrambling backward, under desperate siege by a pair of opponents; she dealt one a hard punch to the helm with her armored fist, closed with the second and disarmed him with a clever twist of her weapon that sent his sword flying, turned back to her first victim, and scowled in disgust as the knight rapidly backed away from her and made his escape.

The man she’d rescued was floundering in the mud with his helm crooked; Meve made a momentary search, turning her entire torso to see through her visor, for his footmen, saw none, dropped her sword in the mud, and, gritting her teeth through her growing exhaustion, dragged him back onto his feet with both hands. She recognized his face with a flash of annoyance, noticed that his right arm was most probably broken, from the way his shield was awkwardly hanging, and sighed. Over his shoulder, Meve spotted the red knight coming for her, himself unhorsed; she hesitated, then raised her empty hand significantly, and, as he accordingly changed course and passed her by, reluctantly signaled to Bohault. The cavalryman and her own footmen circled around, blackjacks held against the thinning remains of the melee.

(“You’ll get tired, sooner than you think, my dear, but recall that this isn’t a _real_ battle, and you may quit the field at any time, even if the fight hasn’t ended yet.”

She’d scoffed at the idea. Reynard smiled and shook his head at her.)

“There’s no shame in retiring early, so long as you put in a valiant effort,” Reynard had said; she repeated his rhetoric to Ethan, just before Isbel snapped the squire’s right shoulder back into place. The youth had nothing to say in response, but managed to nod to convey that he accepted her comments as an absolute truth, given by his Queen, before he fainted dead away. She sighed, rubbed her aching neck, and prepared herself for another lecture from the sorceress, but to her mild surprise the older woman only nodded approvingly at her.

“You’re wanted, ma’am,” Pug announced, sticking her head into the room, “And the Duke of Dogs warns that you’ve won some prize or something, and ought t’ prepare according.”

“They’ve been saying that the black knight is in love with a princess who was turned by magic into a swan,” Isbel remarked. “And that he is searching for a way to turn her back; as part of his quest, he has taken a vow of silence, so that he neither speaks nor removes his helmet. I’ve no idea how these rumors began circulating, obviously.”

“Fantastic,” Meve mumbled, reaching for her helm. “A swan, is it? Sound most inconvenient; for the knight, I mean. I’m sure the lady is quite content.”


	5. Sir Reynard Accepts a Challenge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> changelog: added a line or two of dialogue in chapter 3

The prize was granted by the middle-aged wife of the defendant Baron, smugly standing in for the mysteriously absent Queen; Meve recognized the woman from the previous day’s jousting even through her narrow view. She was exhausted, but Reynard’s horse carried her to receive her due, again without any instruction on her part, and her mud-spattered armor disguised her slight shaking. Somewhere beyond her metal shell, a man haughtily announced, “Behold here this noble lady, accompanied by my lords the judges, who have come to give you the tourney prize, because you have been judged the knight who has fought best today in the melee of the tourney, and my lady prays that you will take it with good will.”

She did, after a short pause before she realized she was being addressed, said nothing at all in response but only bowed, a motion made necessarily awkward by the weight of metal she wore, and then rode away.

There was no avoiding either the feast or dance that night, and Meve’s dwindling morale was not improved on realizing she would be unable to avoid the Baroness, either; she didn’t dislike the woman, but her patience for small talk was limited, at the best of times, and almost nonexistent after her long day. Luckily, the older woman only eyed her speculatively for a moment as she sat down and then tactfully made uninteresting conversation on occasion. The evening therefore wore on tiresomely, but mostly in silence, until she nodded toward Gascon and his admirers and remarked to Meve, “I believe they grow them without brains, these days; you’d best keep that one in green away from your friend. Do you see her circling? A grasping creature; harpies don’t compare.”

Meve, quite familiar with the behavior of harpies, considered the subject with an analytical eye and said, thoughtfully, “Hmm.”

A few minutes later, they were deep in a detailed discussion of the merits and backgrounds of the women in the hall, and then, after another drink or two, the men as well; it carried them companionably until Gascon escaped the crowd and joined them. He flopped into the seat nearest Meve, uninvited, and consumed the rest of her drink with a dramatic sigh. The Baroness stared blandly at him; Meve rolled her eyes toward the other woman.

“This is awful,” Gascon complained, “I don’t know how the two of you do this full-time. I think I was pretty rude, though; maybe most of those people won’t want to talk t’ me again.”

“You get used to it, after a few decades – oh, what now?” Meve asked irritably, as the door to the hall banged open and an armed man strode confidently through. Conversation in the hall ceased instantly, as everyone else looked curiously at the newcomer: a soldier, Meve suspected from his patchwork armor of mail and leather and extensive mustache, or perhaps a mercenary. The stranger looked around himself, bowed toward the Queen and Baroness and said, politely enough, “Good evening; I’m looking for Sir Reynard Odo.”

“Really? What for?” Gascon asked him, intrigued, but the knight stood up before the stranger could answer.

“Yes? Can I help you?” he asked; Meve sighed as the stranger immediately declared, “My master, Sir Holt of the Fen, represents that you have offended his honor and demands that you apologize or else face the consequences.”

“Who?” The Duke asked in a carrying whisper, blinking.

“The red knight; you remember him,” Meve explained, much more quietly. “What did you do, Count Odo?” she asked, louder. The Count shrugged modestly.

“He annoyed me yesterday evening, my lady,” he replied, “And so I threw him up some stairs. No, sir, I won’t apologize,” he continued, to the messenger. “Would do it again, in fact, given the chance.”

Gascon grinned; the Baroness smirked; Meve had to duck her head slightly to hide her own surprised smile. A whisper of comment and a few laughs went around the room; the stranger ignored them.

“In that case, he challenges you to a duel, to restore his honor by force, says you are a recreant knight and no gentleman, and-“

“Yes, yes,” Reynard interrupted, uncharacteristically impatient, “Gascon, would you mind arranging the details?”

“Not at all,” he said, lightly. “Do you prefer swords, or something else?”

“Doesn’t matter to me,” the knight replied, bowed to all present, and shot a quick glance at the Queen. She nodded, very slightly; he left the hall without another word.

“Well,” she said to Gascon, as the stranger made his exit and the general din resumed, “I suppose we’ll be imposing on your hospitality for a few more days, then.”

“Stay as long as you want,” Gascon replied cheerily.

“I’m not surprised he wants to fight me,” Reynard was saying much later, sitting complacently with his legs stretched toward the inferno in Gascon’s fireplace and the knight who’d fought best that day resting her head in his lap, “But I _did_ expect Sir Holt would choose a less melodramatic moment, if he called me out. These things would never fly in the royal court; you’d never get away with giving the melee prize to an unnamed knight who was dismounted and resigned early, no matter how gallantly he behaved toward his allies, or how well he fought beforehand. At least, not without any hurt feelings or complaints - not that I didn’t hear my share even here. Nor with trying to duel a judge of the tournament, for that matter, before it was yet officially over -”

“She,” Meve interrupted, to redirect his lecture, “How well _she_ fought. And I’ll give prizes in my court as I see fit, sir.”

“Won’t be able to win all of ‘em yourself so easily, there,” he answered, “I thought you had fallen asleep; did I wake you?”

“Resting my eyes only, my love,” she said, “I can hear well enough despite.”

“It’s a fine trophy you’ve won,” Gascon said, examining the ruby-studded ring she’d been awarded with professional appreciation, “What will you do with it?”

“Why, give it to the next swan I come across, naturally,” she said; Reynard _almost_ laughed.

“Say, Reynard,” the Duke continued, as if nothing unusual had happened, “Lord knows _I_ _’ve_ annoyed you hundreds of times, and yet you’ve never _thrown me_ _up some stairs_. What gives?”

“Did I say annoyed? I meant something else,” the knight replied, with an automatic glance at Meve. She raised an inquiring eyebrow up at him, smiled as he looked cagily away, and made no attempt to hide her gratification at his embarrassment.

“Oh,” Gascon said, with an ironic smirk, tossed the ring to Reynard, and continued, inexplicably, “ _I_ get it. Well, I went against Sir Holt in the jousts th’ other day, and I don’t think he’s all that good of a fighter.”

“He knocked you down in a single pass,” Meve noted.

“Exactly; nearly anyone else could have done it just as easily, so it proves no particular skill on his part.”

“Yes, well, _I_ fought him in the melee, and I think he’s more than passing good; you’ve your work cut out for you, Reynard. Although,” Meve added, “I should have beaten him in th’ end, without having to stop and rescue that squire of yours again, Gascon.”

“No doubt,” Gascon agreed, with no obvious sarcasm. “Well, seems you’ve preparations to make, Reynard, so I’ll leave you to it. Don’t stay up too late.”

Thick fog had settled in over the fort by the next morning; the Queen sent dozens of courtiers and retainers on their way before noon, moving very stiffly even to an unsuspecting eye, but otherwise appearing her usual self. The Duke, on the other hand, was visibly hungover and surly on top of it. The Baroness regarded her with a faint, amused smile, but said nothing of note as she departed; Meve concluded that, probably, the older woman had gotten the wrong idea altogether about her relationship with Gascon, but it was too late to explain, even if she’d cared to bother. The only trouble with her and Reynard’s affair, she reflected, was that its private nature meant almost nobody else had any idea it existed, causing the occasional inconvenience.

She managed the rest of the departures with casual patience. Those few of Gascon’s admirers who were truly dedicated braved his short answers and dull, stupid glare, to no profit - he had no obvious interest in any of the women, no matter what they tried. Reynard watched the proceedings on and off from a distance, saying nothing, but conveniently vanishing during the brief appearance and hasty departure of the red knight. By midafternoon, the last of the visitors were gone, leaving only the lesser mob of Meve’s own retinue. Gascon, who had suddenly recovered from his hangover and moodiness, departed for a conference with the enemy and returned late in the evening.

“Sir Holt’s agreed to fight with th’ usual weapons, but not now. He says he wishes to postpone until some point in the near future; claims that his shield arm is injured from the melee due to a particularly hard hit, and he is, therefore, not prepared to restore his honor _immediately_ ,” he reported, helping himself to Reynard’s dinner. Meve smiled smugly.

“So,” Reynard said, yielding over his mostly untouched plate and looking unusually irritated, “There was really no reason for him to interrupt your feast with this nonsense, yesterday.”

“Well, he doesn’t wear that ridiculous red armor because he’s th’ uninteresting but considerate type, like yourself, my friend.”

“I suppose I ought to go back to Rivia Castle tomorrow, then,” said Meve, without much enthusiasm, as Reynard rolled his eyes and Gascon grinned cheekily at him. “Two weeks away from court is, perhaps, a little long; I wouldn’t want them to start getting creative ideas in my absence.”

“I’ll go too; no need to await Sir Holt’s _recovery_ here instead of there,” Reynard said quickly.

“ _Or_ you could stay here,” Gascon said hopefully, “Sure, it’ll take a few weeks, but by then it’ll be hunting season, which you shouldn’t miss - boars, should it snow early in the season, deer if it don’t, foxes either way - you’d be home in no less than two months, I figure, when all’s said and done.”

The minor argument that immediately ensued brought Meve to a sudden conclusion; she considered that she wasn’t sure how, exactly, she could have missed the now very obvious reason for Gascon’s moodiness as she interrupted them:

“Gascon, we aren’t parting forever or even departing on a long journey to distant Kovir, only going home, which is a few days’ ride from here at most; you may visit us at any time you choose.”

Reynard glanced sharply at her and then adopted a distant frown. The Duke stared, apparently speechless for once; she looked back at him impassively until he said, “You spend far too much time with that sorceress; you’re acquiring a certain similarity of expression. Have you noticed it, Reynard?”

“No,” the knight said stiffly.

“Anyway,” Gascon continued, “I know all that, obviously, and, well, I’ll be honest: it does feel strangely isolated, out here by myself, after we all spent so much time together before; the two of you have each other, perhaps as a result you don’t feel the same - although don’t get me wrong, I’m very happy for you both; no two people that I know suit each other better - but you’re right, it’s not as if I couldn’t make it to the capitol more often; it’s less simple for you to both drop everything and come all the way here, unless it’s with a good excuse like the tournament. I knew it’d work a charm.”

He ran out of breath on his final, slightly triumphant phrase and stopped; Reynard looked thoughtfully from Gascon to Meve, whose victorious smile had quickly faded to a stunned, slightly hurt stare.

“Perhaps,” he said carefully, “You might have said something about this earlier, instead of delaying and inventing plots, or been less cagey about it all week - in short, you could, generally, have handled this better, _but_ ,” he continued, a little louder as Meve opened her mouth to interrupt him, “We’ve all benefited, I think, from this - diversion, one way or another, so no lasting harm done.”

Meve mumbled something under her breath, frowning.

“The next time that you want to get together, however, you might find it convenient to just ask us, without any schemes to bring it about.”

“Yes, of course,” Gascon said, “You’re right. Should I apologize?”

“Not to me.”

Meve shook her head at him, but Gascon said, “I’m sorry, Meve. How do people usually apologize, at court? Flowers? A card? Or I could let Sir Reynard knock me off a horse, like he will Sir Holt?”

“No,” she said, “I can knock you off horses myself perfectly well.”

“I await your summons, then,” he said, venturing a hopeful grin, “Or I could send a fruit basket; we will soon be well-supplied with apples -”

“Look,” she said, finally cracking an amused smile despite herself, “It’s fine; I forgive you. Just - just don’t be such an ass, next time.”

“I will never be an ass again,” he announced, mouthed _thank you_ to Reynard, bowed gallantly, and then prudently departed. Meve stared at the spot on the floor where he’d been standing for a long moment, then sighed, cracked her aching neck and sat in Reynard’s lap, frowning.

“That man is a disaster,” she remarked.

“Do you want me to fight him, too?” he asked; she ran her fingers through his hair and said, fondly, “No, thank you. I don’t think a knock on the head will be of much use, here; Gascon will have to sort himself out some other way, I’m afraid. If he can.”

“And what about you?”

“Me? Well, I’m all right, I suppose.”

Reynard looked up at her, frowning doubtfully.

“Really,” she claimed. “Gascon does have one thing right; having you around makes the more difficult days easier to get through.”

He looked less dubious; she grinned, kissed him, and added, “Although th’ effect might be in part a result of that hit I took in the melee; a knock on the head _can_ solve one’s problems on occasion, though not quite so often as it causes them.”

“A good thing _your_ head is so hard, then,” he noted with a smile.


	6. Sir Reynard Delivers Messages

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so it turns out medieval tax law is insanely complicated and even a small amount of side reading on it takes forever. if someone else is for some weird reason interested in knights' fees and some of the problems they caused my source material is [this chapter](https://www.gutenberg.org/files/44021/44021-h/44021-h.htm#page182) in a very lectury 1895 book which goes into detail about English feudal government income in general. this is probably not the most recent scholarship on the subject and i would not try to use it as a source in a paper but I did not feel like battling with JSTOR's shitty search engine just to research a short color plot in my goofy thronebreaker fanfic. anyway welcome to part 2 of our non-adventure, enjoy (or don't, i am not a beggar.)

A week later, Meve had nearly forgotten about the looming duel. She alighted from her horse in the castle courtyard and was instantly handed a report: in Dravograd there was a disagreement between the human and dwarf smithing guilds, which might soon lead to violence. Sir Reynard immediately turned back around and rode away to solve the distant problem. The Queen meanwhile settled into days of debate over an ongoing issue at home. The trouble, she learned, was that some of her barons had too many knights, overfilling the quota on which the crown drew an annual tax, and paid more than they preferred or could afford. Meanwhile, others had too few, with the result that the realm burdened them less. The latter outnumbered the former by a mathematically considerable amount, so that the crown’s entitlement had fallen short of the expected amount for the year; a new law was required, and had been drafted. However, the batch of them were incapable of finalizing the text of the proposed rule, especially where it concerned the amounts to be payable, and had come to a hopeless standstill in her absence. In the resulting confusion of numbers and obstruction, she only had reason to recall the tournament and its aftermath because a servant brought an unexpected letter to her office.

She eyed the scrawled writing on the front, was informed that it had been delivered to the kitchen by a sullen-looking speechless brigand, shrugged, and left it, unopened, for Reynard. He found it some days later, when he returned from his mission.

“Gascon doesn’t _ever_ write _,_ ” he remarked, frowning suspiciously at the Duke’s name on the envelope, and cut it open it cautiously. He tipped it out over Meve’s desk, but it contained nothing dangerous, only a short note on dirty old paper, written in what appeared to be charcoal.

“I presumed it was about your duel,” Meve explained, “Is it?”

“Not - not as such,” he replied, after reading it over a second time; a baffled frown was on his face. “Says he’s departed on a _quest_ , of all things, not to worry about him, will return when he’s finished, or else when Sir Holt gets around to fighting, whichever happens first.”

Meve took the note out of his hand and stared at the offending word in disbelief.

“A _quest_? Has he lost his mind? This isn’t a bard’s tale; he has a fief to manage, and -”

“It’s getting on to winter, luckily,” Reynard interrupted in his most reasonable tone, “So, there’s not much managing for him to do, just now.”

“Unless there’s a fire, or a war, or bandits,” Meve snapped, gripping the flimsy paper hard.

“Well, you’ve made two of those possibilities rather unlikely, at the moment,” the Count said; he took the letter away and added as Meve instantly crossed her arms, “I agree; this is a ridiculous notion. However, he _does_ appear to have had the foresight to choose a sensible time of year to have it, which is more responsible than usual. For him, I mean.”

“He might’ve said something, instead of simply vanishing,” she complained, feeling that she was losing ground in the argument by remaining silent.

“-and,” Reynard continued, as if she hadn’t, “He can’t have gone very far, else he’d have no way of knowing when this duel is to take place. If, indeed, it ever will.”

Meve brightened slightly and said, “In that case, you should find it simple enough to hunt him down again.”

“I’ll do it if you wish, of course, but will you hear my advice, first?”

“I usually do, I suppose.”

“I think you should just leave it be, for the time being; he’ll return in due time and patience will answer far better than action, to speed the process.” 

“Were he anyone else, I’d have him arrested,” Meve said, the glare staying put on her face but her shoulders relaxing slightly in defeat.

“I know that, but in truth, I believe we’ll have our stray dog back soon enough,” Reynard said gently, “All we have to do is wait.”

Patience, instead of action, was not how Meve preferred to operate, but she did her best to do as Reynard suggested, aided considerably by the ongoing distraction of the tax problem. Intelligence crossed her desk, in relation to the knights’ fees and otherwise; no report contained information on the missing Duke, but one included a rumor that briefly distracted even her from her main priority: an informant ended his confidential message on the exact details of her northern vassals’ taxable estates on a strange note.

“Says here an unknown knight’s rumored to be in th’ area of Hawkesburn,” she said to Reynard, after a glance around to ensure they were alone in the room. “Apparently he wears black armor and jousted with all comers who crossed his path, for two days, defeated three knights, and then, on losing to a fourth, vanished again and hasn’t been seen since.” 

“How tiresome,” Reynard replied; she laughed at his stuffily disapproving tone and, as it was difficult to collect fees on the armored head of an unverified rumor, forgot about it. She was, after all, quite busy, cooking up a scheme to end the fee stalemate before it brought the court to a complete halt or, worse, came to blows. She set her accountants and clerks to work and soon delivered a new proposal to the court, a plan that settled the matter in a way that heavily profited the crown at the barons’ considerable expense; the document was of course rejected out of hand. She then threatened a royal command, and was pleased to find that all but the most belligerent of her vassals suddenly favored the original, far more equitable proposal that had been drawn up in the first place.

Meanwhile, the end of autumn passed by; the last of the dull brown leaves on the trees blew away in a windstorm and the branches stood bare against the sky. Reliable reports of a werewolf near the northern border were followed, as Reynard was preparing a force to investigate, by further news that the beast had been dealt with by a black knight. The last holdout against the final version of the new tax law suddenly became perfectly amenable to the proposal, after a personal visit from Count Odo, armed with a sword and a bluntly phrased reminder of the baron’s failure to support the Queen during the war. A somewhat embarrassed young knight of Meve’s court turned up, with a believable, unembellished tale in which a stranger in black armor jousted against him on a bridge and knocked him off into the icy creek below. That same day, the new tax law was finally signed by unanimous consent of the court. The weather settled into its usual, predictable early winter pattern - two days of rain, two of sun, one of icy grayness, followed again by rain.

Then, during the afternoon on one of the rainy days, a traveler arrived in court - a familiar man, dressed in mismatched chainmail and leather armor, and bearing a message from Sir Holt of the Fen. Meve happened to be in the armory, considering a new crossbow that could fire two bolts on a single load; he was shown in, followed immediately by Reynard. The sergeant broke off his explanation of the crossbow’s double trigger system, raised an alarmed eyebrow at the Count’s dark expression, and promptly invited himself out; the messenger seemed to feel similarly about the situation and wasted no time making his speech:

“My master asks for your assistance, Your Grace; he was - “ the messenger paused, frowning uncertainly, produced a paper with writing on both sides, and read from it, squinting nearsightedly, “ - he was, I quote, _assailed at night at an isolated crossroads, by a knight errant well armed in black armor who spake not; there they did fight a mighty battle for hours_ -”

“Skip to th’ end, sir,” the Queen said, casually picking a sword from a rack; the messenger glanced at it, quickly flipped the paper over, and summarized the rest:

“ - anyway, he was struck down by the stranger, following which the black knight disappeared into the darkness, as if by an enchantment, and - well, in short, he requests that you send an appropriate force to apprehend the villain. Also, he wishes to inform my lord the Count that he is prepared to do battle with the same, at the Count’s convenience.”

“About damn time,” the Count growled under his breath.

“To clarify,” the Queen said, a slightly malicious gleam in her eye, “Sir Holt, after challenging the best out of all my knights to a personal combat, wants me to send him along to fight off a brigand that he is unable to defeat, himself.”

“That’s about the size of it, my lady,” the messenger said, absently folding his paper into a square and looking carefully blank. She eyed him thoughtfully, wondering what role, exactly, he filled in Sir Holt’s retinue; the question was irrelevant, and so she set it aside for later consideration.

“I see. Well, Count Odo, what say you?”

“I am at your command, as always, Your Grace,” he said stiffly.

“Very well; we’ll depart for Sir Holt’s lands tomorrow morning,” she decided, idly studying the sword she held. “I believe I’d like to meet this mysterious knight for myself; my court sorceress will solve any enchantments, and there will be nowhere for him to hide.”

The messenger bowed his way out; Meve waited a good half minute for him to be well out of earshot and then stepped across to a large map tacked to the armory wall. She considered the north of the country and noted, casually, “Gascon’s estates and Sir Holt’s aren’t so far apart; they’re neighbors, in fact.”

“Oh?”

“Well,” she said, turning back with the sword pointed toward Reynard, “I know of only one anonymous knight errant in black armor in my kingdom, and _I_ certainly have not been riding about the country in the middle of the night, fighting with passing strangers and killing occasional monsters. At least, not recently.”

“No, I daresay I would have noticed, if you were,” Reynard allowed with a fond smile. “So, then, who do you suspect?”

“I don’t know, yet,” Meve said, looking down the length of the blade at him. “It just seems odd that the place where I fought incognito is so near to where a similarly attired knight is now causing trouble. I take issue, sir, with some stranger stealing _my_ disguise and ruining the reputation I forged in it.”

“ _Or_ ,” he suggested, eyes narrowing, “Perhaps what’s happened is that Sir Holt, not making any connection between the black knight of the tournament and the similar knight at Hawkesburn, heard the same story we did about the latter and invented this tale of his defeat, to draw me out to the countryside and thereby avoid fighting me on home ground.”

“Ah,” she said, lowering the sword. “Yes, I suppose that’s a plausible theory. I can send someone else out, if you’d prefer.”

Her heart lurched suddenly as a slight, dangerous smile crossed his face. She set the sword down absently, said, “No, I didn’t think you would,” and abandoned consideration of far-away knights, black or red, in favor of the much more interesting example she had immediately to hand.


	7. Sir Reynard and the Duke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> good news: the first draft of this thing is almost complete  
> bad news: regular life has returned (as much as it can these days) and the things i do on normal days are just about the polar opposite of 'write a YA novel length sort of historical fiction about knights' and as a result the last 5 percent is taking longer to finish than the first 95 percent did but what can u do I guess  
> changelog: the final version of the summary is now finally final. i didnt plan that very well when i started out here.

The next morning dawned clear and the weather remained dry; Reynard’s picked company needed little encouragement to take full advantage. The General was in an uncommon hurry, it was plain to see, and so they traveled until late each night with only short breaks. During their third, bitterly cold, evening, a scout came down the column toward his commander and reported, “Seen an armed horseman not far up the way.”

“A highwayman,” the Count suggested; the Queen, overhearing them, said, “Or the black knight.”

The scout shook his head.

“Not likely a knight, my lady, nor no bandit neither, sir, I figure, but I’ll wager he waits for passerby, whatever.”

“It’s just th’ one man,” the Count said, shrugging; nevertheless the column continued somewhat more slowly, with eyes kept to the dark trees around and arrows on their bowstrings. They reached the turn in the road that the scout indicated and paused; the stranger was still there, sitting his horse in the moonlight under a dark hood, apparently waiting. The Queen and Count both leaned forward to squint suspiciously at the oddly familiar figure, and several of the warband as well; the Count then pulled an exasperated frown and sat up suddenly in his saddle.

“Oh, for the love of -”

“Stand down,” Meve ordered, cutting Reynard off, “We know this fellow.”

The stranger laughed, pulled his hood down, and bowed grandly toward his audience. Meve kicked her horse into motion as Reynard said, irritably, “Nice of you to rejoin society, Brossard.”

“Couldn’t miss your duel, could I?” the Duke replied, brightly; the knight had no time to reply as Meve approached, turned her horse, grabbed the Duke’s stirrup, and yanked upwards, tipping him off the opposite side of his alarmed mount. He hit the road with a grunt and immediately sprang upright, surprised and angry, caught sight of the grim expression on the Queen’s face, and mastered himself with an attempt at a nonchalant shrug. She said nothing and rode away; the column followed, leaving Reynard behind.

“Well,” the Duke said, after the last of the warband passed on, “I suppose my unhorsing was long overdue.”

The Count shook his head disapprovingly, recaptured Gascon’s mare, and waited for the other man to clamber, wincing, back into the saddle.

“Nice to see you, too,” Gascon added, settling himself and picking dead leaves off his jacket. “Ouch.”

“Hmm,” Reynard replied doubtfully, releasing the horse.

“Yes, quite, and no more need be said on the subject. Anyway, I rode out t’ invite you and your company to stay at my place. My _other_ place, I mean; the lodge, not the fort, which is inconveniently located for our, um, purposes. It’s about an hour’s ride from here,” he added, in response to the knight’s unspoken question. “I stationed a man partway, to direct you; I myself ought t’ ride on ahead and ensure all’s prepared. Under the circumstances, if you’d kindly relay th’ invitation to your lady love for me, I’d be much obliged.”

“Yes,” Reynard agreed, “That’s probably th’ only good idea you’ve had all month.”

“Well, you know what they say about clocks,” Gascon said, cheerfully enough. “Or is it th’ one about blind squirrels? Anyway, I’ll see you later.”

He galloped off; Reynard sighed and hurried to catch up with the column.

Half an hour later, at a fork in the road, they found Ethan waiting; the squire awkwardly led the warband through the dark woods, attempting to look anywhere except at its silent leader. They arrived just before midnight at a building which resembled a typical hunting lodge in the same way that Rivia Castle resembled the Brossard fort. Meve displayed no particular interest in the vast exterior, built out of the crumbling remains of an elven fortress, or the several hundred hunting trophies mixed with long since out of fashion furnishings that filled the drafty rooms within it. As they entered, Reynard said quietly to her, “Reminds me of my grandfather, this place,” which dragged a slight smile through her tense displeasure; nevertheless she stayed stubbornly silent until they were out of sight and hearing of anyone else but the uncharacteristically courteous Gascon.

“This house is like that menagerie Foltest keeps in Vizima,” she finally remarked, studying a white bearskin rug with the snarling head still attached, “Except that th’ animals are mostly still alive there, of course.”

“I haven’t had the time to redecorate,” Gascon ventured with the air of a man testing the waters. “In truth, this is only the second time I’ve ever been here, myself. My mother never wanted t’ come here when I was young; said it was creepy.”

“She wasn’t entirely wrong,” Meve said, glancing around at the strange shadows the animal heads threw on the walls in the firelight. Reynard shrugged unconcernedly and put an arm around her. A slightly awkward silence fell.

“Would you like to see a camelopard’s head?” Gascon asked, breaking it; Meve looked interested, instead of icily distant, and he pointed the rare trophy out, just over the fireplace in company with a few other preserved monsters. They sat and regarded it for a moment.

“That,” Reynard stated flatly, “Is a horse’s head with spots painted on it.”

“It was quite a fine horse, however,” Meve said with an amused smile, her bad mood forgotten.

“ _And_ they’re well-painted spots,” Gascon replied, grinning.

By morning, the incident on the road the night before had been forgotten, by unspoken mutual consent. Meve and Reynard passed an hour of the morning in an argument over their next move; Gascon, meanwhile, conveniently vanished to negotiate with the enemy camp. Eventually the disagreement was resolved by some cunning diplomacy on Meve’s part; she and Isbel then departed to investigate the mystery of the black knight, leaving Reynard behind to await his second’s return.

Rain had set in; they rode through cold drizzle, accompanied by a miserable escort. Isbel considered the dripping soldiers and the sparse, leafless scrub trees that dominated the roadside and finally said, “If the black knight, so-called, can vanish, perhaps by enchantment, as you suggested when you dragged me along on this excursion, it isn’t by light of day, and certainly not into _these_ woods.”

“I know that,” Meve said.

“Then what, may I ask, is the point of this?”

“Why, the fresh air and exercise,” she replied. Silence returned after, for a time, and then the sorceress, in a tone of deep disgust, said, “You’re hoping to find this person before Sir Reynard does, aren’t you?”

“Well - all right; we’ve something of a wager going, on that ring I won in the tourney, and the next of us to win a fight will also win the prize. He, of course, is expecting this duel any day now, so the sooner I find the black knight, the better, as there’s not much chance he’ll lose it.”

The sorceress sighed, cast a despairing look skyward, and noted, “The black knight perhaps does not exist, or may not be found in these parts.”

“Yes, that’s Reynard’s theory,” Meve said, casually, “But I disagree.”

They returned that evening empty-handed and damp, to find Reynard in a state of abject boredom. His gloom was only slightly lessened by Meve’s return and her lack of success; noticing the depressed atmosphere, she attempted to engage him in a chat about the weather, and then, when the conversation failed, talked aimlessly at him about the latest advancements in crossbow design. Gascon returned as night was falling, long after she’d stopped trying to shift his mood and had resigned herself to examining the hunting trophies in the melancholy silence.

“We’ve chosen the field,” he said, “I just went to have a look, as it’s not all that far away. It looks decent; not too many holes in it, and I don’t think it’ll be flooded from all this rain.”

“ _When?_ _”_ Reynard asked, testily.

“Tomorrow evening,” said Gascon, “And I should warn you that th’ opposition’s clearly intending to use the sunset to his advantage, should the weather clear, but then, perhaps it won’t.”

Meve glanced out the nearest window; the rain had turned spotty after dark, and she could see stars through patches in the clouds at the western horizon. She frowned and left the men to an involved discussion of the field’s layout; neither of them appeared to notice her departure. She found Isbel studying the camelopard head with a dubious frown. The sorceress kept up the expression as she explained the latest development and only said, wearily, “These men,” in response.

“I thought,” Meve said, idly, “That, perhaps, you’re right about the black knight.”

“Oh?”

“Yes; he certainly shouldn’t vanish very well, by day, at least; we really ought to be hunting for him at night, instead.”

“In _this_ weather?”

“Well, it’s inconvenient, to be sure, and would make fighting him much more difficult, and I suppose that _any_ advantage is worth th’ effort,” Meve said significantly, eying the older woman. Isbel considered the statement a moment.

“Is Sir Reynard in any significant danger?” she asked, pointedly.

“Doubtful,” Meve replied, waving the idea off as it if was impossible; hadn’t even crossed her mind; “This isn’t _that_ serious of a matter. He may be injured, I suppose, but not killed - not on purpose, at least, and he’s been a knight too long for an accident to be likely.”

“Well then, perhaps I might leave early,” Isbel suggested, looking unconvinced.

“The fight’s tomorrow evening,” Meve noted, apparently ignoring the request, “Do you think that the weather will hold, or clear?”

“I don’t know,” Isbel answered, reluctantly. “It’s hard to tell, so far in advance, at this time of year; I suppose it may not.”

“As you say,” Meve said, flashed her victorious smile, and added, “Travel safely; we’ll see you at home.”


	8. Sir Reynard and the Red Knight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. first draft (w/ associated research) is finally complete; it's right around 70 pages and so u are now at about the halfway point of the whole story.  
> 2\. if interested, [here](https://www.gutenberg.org/files/44335/44335-h/44335-h.htm#Page_71) is a list of the various positions in Edward IV's personal staff in the year 1478, plus some descriptions of their roles, pay, and their daily allowances of food and candles and etc. it seems reasonable to assume that Meve's household has about the same number of members (altho she does not mention all of them in this chapter), since as far as I can tell from ppl's clothing the witcher games seem to take place in roughly what would have been the 15th century in real life*.  
> where, exactly, Reynard fits into this scheme is hard to say for sure since none of the jobs are for 'knight/adviser/marshal who also sleeps with the monarch' but he is a special case, I guess.  
> 3\. reynard odo: the tom brady of the rivian jousting circuit? discuss.
> 
>   
> (*special note: i may be totally wrong about this bc I am not even close to a medieval expert. i have some formal training as a historian but my special personal interest is early-mid 19th century N.C. politics, not Europe in 1470 lol)

It turned quite cold the next morning, but the air was dead calm, and high clouds remained overhead throughout the day. Gascon vanished early, reappeared for a hurried lunch with a garbled explanation about lances and Sir Holt’s squire, and disappeared again. Meve spent the morning in a somewhat unenthusiastic search for the black knight, then the afternoon with Reynard, who had even less to say than usual. Near the appointed hour, they set off on foot, leading Reynard’s patient destrier; the chilly air and exercise put Meve in an oddly talkative mood and she settled into a lengthy lecture about the red knight - his perceived fighting ability, his probable weaknesses and undeniable strengths, and his disagreeable personality. Reynard let her carry on for some time before interjecting as she reached that final heading in her address, “Yes, I know; it’s why all of this happened.”

She stopped walking and stared at him, thrown off course by the statement. He shrugged.

“I don’t, generally, give a damn what some drunk, melodramatic idiot has to say about me. However, the things he said about me in connection with _you_ , and the other way around, for that matter, were - “

“Annoying,” she finished, pointedly, torn between feeling irritated and flattered. The latter won out; she smiled at him, despite herself. “I see now; well - thank you, I suppose. Anyway, as I was saying: the red knight tends to hesitate before he aims with the lance, and you should -”

He shook his head in mild frustration, stepped closer, and kissed her; she promptly lost interest in the red knight and slide her arms around his neck, feeling a slight hint of an old, desperate, almost-forgotten emotion that had shadowed the first weeks of their relationship and the last weeks of the war. The forgotten horse watched them, briefly, and then wandered away, bored with the spectacle. A little later Gascon came up on them, recaptured him, and said, sternly, “Come along, you two; we’ve an appointment t’ keep.”

The field really _was_ decent, Meve decided, on seeing it, the kind of place she’d have chosen; a fine ten-acre piece of pasture at the top of a shallow slope. Reynard sat on his horse, staring silently across to the other side, at the distant shapes of his opponent’s party. Gascon ambled off in their direction, hands in his pockets; the usual messenger separated from the opposite camp and met him halfway.

“It appears they haven’t changed their minds,” Reynard said, as they finished a brief discussion and Gascon headed back toward them. Meve passed his helm. He took it distractedly.

“Oh, wait,” she said, suddenly digging in her pocket; she fished out the ring she’d won in the tournament and handed it up to him. Reynard smiled and tucked it into his left glove as she added, “Good luck.”

“They’ve agreed to fight until someone yields,” Gascon reported, “Or, well, until - you know.”

“Yes,” Reynard said, pulled his helm on, pointed out one of the lances Gascon had set aside, and added politely, on receiving it, “Thank you.”

They watched as he rode a few dozen yards downfield, saluted his distant opponent, and slammed his visor shut.

“Sure is cold out here,” Gascon remarked, having apparently reached the limit of his ability to remain silent, “Might be frost tonight, I imagine.”

Meve found no emotion to spare for the weather forecast as the knights advanced from a trot to a gallop, lances coming to bear. Reynard moved with military sharpness, the red knight more casually, but both hit their mark. Reynard’s lance snapped from the shock, to no effect; Meve spotted the red knight’s brief hesitation before the hit and his point, as a result, skidded uselessly off of Reynard’s shield. The horses passed each other at a thundering pace.

“Not too bad,” Gascon said, as Reynard trotted back around, collected a second spear without a word, and returned to his starting position. Meve squinted at his back as a sudden memory came to her, and asked Gascon, thoughtlessly, “Did Reynard talk to you?”

“Well, he often does; was this conversation about anything in particular?”

She sighed quietly; the horses rumbled to a gallop again.

“Yes,” she said, resignedly, “It was during your tournament; you were acting a little strangely that week, and I wanted him to find out why.”

“Oh, that,” he said, cheerily, “Yes, he did. Didn’t say _you_ had anything t’ do with it, though.”

The lances wavered, then aimed; Meve again saw the red knight’s half-second pause. Reynard did, too, or else was expecting it; he shifted his weight at the same moment, tapped the point of the oncoming lance off the mark with a small movement of his own, then settled the weapon and carried his attack through, directly into his opponent’s chest. The red knight hit the ground with a resounding crash. Gascon whistled softly, impressed.

“Perhaps he forgot to report back to you,” he suggested, as Reynard slowed and turned his horse.

“No,” Meve said, “It was my fault; I never did ask him about it. Is he going to ride Sir Holt down?” she wondered, but Reynard dropped his lance, dismounted, and strode across the field with his sword in hand. “No, no. Of course not,” she muttered, rolling her eyes; _she_ would have, but -

“That wouldn’t be a chivalrous thing to do, and so Sir Reynard Odo would never,” Gascon said snidely, “Unlike, apparently, interrogating me at your command.”

She sighed irritably, a sound drowned out by the clash of the knights’ swords, and swallowed some of her pride, suspecting that Gascon wasn’t truly angry.

“Look, I wanted to make sure you were all right, and I didn’t think you’d actually tell me if I asked.”

“Oh,” he said; she’d been right and his tone had no more ill will in it, “Well, you have me there. Still, you could have given me the chance to lie about it, first.”

“Noted,” she said, dryly, “for next time.” The red knight swung wild, and paid for his excess as Reynard dropped his shield, seized his sword-arm in his free hand, and pulled. Sir Holt immediately bulled forward, plowed him down, and carried on over him for a few yards before overbalancing and crashing to earth, himself.

“Do you think they’re alright?” Gascon asked; Meve squinted at the recumbent figures in the distance and, as they began to stir and heave themselves upright, said, “Oh, yes. They’ve some fight left in them yet.”

“Dedicated sportsmen,” Gascon said, approvingly, watching them return to their battle, “I’m fine, since you asked; it was just a - a trying week, for everyone, I suppose, and then, after it ended I felt if I didn’t get away for a while I would go mad. I’m not very good at this, you know -” Meve glanced away from the combat for a moment; he was waving his arms toward the field at large in an all-encompassing gesture of helplessness, “- not just tournaments, but also the farms, planning, accounts, th’ endless problems that arise. Suppose I’m just not good at being a noble. My foreman and steward do most of it; I just sign the paperwork. I thought they’d likely manage just as well or better, without me in their way for a while.”

“Oh,” Meve said, glancing toward the combat; reassured that the knights were still alive, she continued, “I see. Is that what you told Reynard?”

“More or less,” Gascon said.

“Because that’s what being a noble _is,_ ” she said, “I don’t run this kingdom by myself, as you might have noticed; Reynard, on top of his considerable other abilities, is the finest administrator I’ve ever seen, handles many of the minor issues before I even know about them - and there’s clerks, yeomen, cofferers, chamberlains, advisers, and all the rest of that horde of people at court who draw money from my treasury by the week and eat me out of house and home year round. All I do, much of the time, is sign the paperwork and keep them moving forward, lest they collapse into dissolution over every little problem, and the realm with them. Which is, in general, what I expect Reynard might have explained to you.”

Gascon stared at her, blinking, and then, glancing over her shoulder, said, “Oh. Uh, I think they’re about done. Is that Sir Holt who’s down? Do you think he’s yielded?”

The knights had stopped a few yards apart from each other and appeared to be having a discussion, Reynard leaning precariously on his sword, stuck end-first in the dirt, and the red knight sitting on the ground.

“It’s hard to tell,” she said, “Shall we walk over and ask them?”

Meve detoured on the way, to catch Reynard’s horse; it took a few minutes to persuade the animal to leave the brush at the edge of the pasture, and by the time she came up on the knights the rest of the audience had gathered around them. Reynard, standing somewhat awkwardly, looked around at her and said, as if they had met by chance, “Good evening, Your Grace; we wait on your judgment.”

“You do?”

“Sir Holt and I thought we’d call it a draw, should it please you,” he explained, “He declines to yield, but is willing to bow to your, uh, wishes.”

“- command,” the red knight corrected, peering hazily through his visor. Meve suspected his fall had scrambled his brains, slightly. Reynard looked and sounded quite tired out, himself, she noticed, as he said, “Yes, exactly, and I feel the same way.”

“Yes, very well, a draw it is,” the Queen said quickly, before one or the other could change his mind or fall over unconscious, “I applaud your valor, my lords.”

Reynard dropped his sword with obvious relief, dragged his opponent upright without putting any weight on his left leg, and said, “Well fought, Sir Holt;” he then received a believable if addled remark on the subject of the red knight’s great esteem for his skill, and the two parted much as they’d met - not friends, but not enemies and therefore, as Gascon said, “No harm done to anyone.”

“Actually,” Reynard said, “I think my ankle may be broken.”

It was; they tied the limb up well and set the knight on a couch in the lodge, with several medicinally applied glasses of a particularly harsh moonshine liquor in him. Gascon lost no time in noting that he couldn’t very well ride home the next day; Reynard, not quite sober, was clearly prepared to argue, but Meve said casually that it was no matter, as she had yet had business in the area, which might last the entire week. The brewing conflict fizzled out as both men stared at her, confounded by the announcement. Gascon recovered first.

“Well, while you’re at whatever it is, perhaps I can also interest you in a hunt for one of your own stags; we’ve glimpsed some fine ones, lately.”

“Perhaps,” she echoed. “After all, my specific quarry apparently rides by night, which leaves me some spare time to chase others.”

Reynard frowned painfully, catching on, and said, “The black knight, still?” Gascon shook his head, baffled, and Reynard explained with long-suffering annoyance, carefully avoiding mention of his wager with the Queen.

“Oh, I see,” Gascon said at the end, sounding unsure of the truth of his own statement. “This is a, uh, personal matter, of a sort. Well, I have not heard of this knight, what with bein’ out of touch for a while, but I suppose if I can be of assistance-” 

“Thank you; you may,” Meve interrupted, pointedly. “You can put an idea of mine to rest, maybe: how well do you know Sir Holt?”

“Um, well, not very; shouldn’t have recognized his face before he came to the tournament, but we’ve obviously had dealings since then.”

“Reynard, here, thinks the black knight is in part an invention of his; what is your opinion?” 

“Certainly he’s not the sort to shy from a tall tale, but I’d expect he’d prefer one that makes him sound better, not worse, and I don’t reckon he’s sharp enough to come up with one himself. Now, his squire, Gaheris - th’ one with the mustache; you’ve met him - I _do_ know fairly well, in passing. _He_ _’s_ no fool, but, knowing him, I don’t think he’d bother.”

“Ah,” Meve said, mildly satisfied with solving one mystery at least, “The messenger, yes. You may be right. In fact, you probably are. Well then, gentlemen, here is my latest theory,” she continued, in the slightly arrogant tone she generally used to deliver a royal proclamation: “I suspect that Sir Holt may be the black knight, himself.”

Reynard closed his eyes wearily. Gascon considered the idea for no more than a second and said, brightly, “Well, it’s _a_ theory, no doubt. Listen, how’s this: I’ll send scouts out early tomorrow morning, to look for deer, black knights, or signs of incursion by Sir Holt - and, one way or another, by afternoon we’ll have _something_ t’ chase. If there’s hide or hair of any creature out in my woods, Pug will find its trail; she’s an expert poacher. _Was_ an expert poacher, I mean.”

“Yes, all right,” Meve said, noticing lines forming on Reynard’s forehead and the Duke’s clear eagerness to be done with the subject. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Gascon replied, drained his glass, and excused himself to _“make th’ arrangements.”_

“Nothing at all will dissuade you from this errand of yours, will it?” Reynard asked, not opening his eyes.

“Nothing,” she confirmed, lightly, sitting next to him. “But, as you won’t be going anywhere for at least a week - yes, a whole week, Reynard - and I don’t particularly care to do without you for that long, the least I can do is investigate what may well be a threat to national security, meanwhile.”

“A threat to th’ egos of your corps of knights, more likely,” Reynard muttered.

“Well, birds and stones, you know,” she said, pulling him into her arms; he opened his eyes again, looking uncertain. “Or do I mean bushes?”

“I’m not sure _what_ you think you mean, precisely,” he said.

“Anyway,” Meve continued, a teasing glint in her eye, “After your success today, you must give the rest of us a fair chance to cover ourselves in glory.”

“Hardly,” he protested, with no false modesty. “You won a tourney, yourself, and _my_ fight today ended a draw. Which, I suppose, means I ought to give this back,” he added, producing the ring. “As it isn’t truly won, yet.”

“Oh, keep it,” Meve said.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yes; you deserve it. You are, without a doubt, the best knight that I know of,” she replied. “Anyway, I’m sure I’ll find an excuse to win it back from you, sooner or later.”

“I look forward to it,” he said, cracking a smile at last.


	9. Sir Reynard's Week Off

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> n: the poem Reynard reads is a from 12th century Anglo-Norman book, _The Bestiary of Philippe de Thaon._ of course, it probably isn't the same exact book in Witcher world, b/c medieval bestiaries irl were designed less to impart factual scientific information and more to deliver a Christian religious allegory (the immediate following and preceding lines of the poem are exactly that), but it's probably close enough.  
> if you like medieval poetry, which I do even tho I'm not much for poems usually, some links to an 1841 English translation can be found [here](http://bestiary.ca/etexts/wright1841/wright1841.htm). i suggest the side by side version. if u only want to see the part about the unicorn (called monoceros in the text but i decided to go with a more easily recognizable name) it's on page 12. 
> 
> ps. I doubt Gascon knows he owns a priceless, probably hand-illuminated, 200-year-old book. unfortunately i dont think Meve or Reynard are about to inform him b/c neither of them strike me as people who are interested in books given any other entertainment option. oh well.
> 
> changelog: final decision for chapter titles wow

The scouts reported signs of various animals in the forest, forecasted rain, and had nothing to say about knights, real or imagined, of any color whatever. Meve did not seem concerned about evidence or lack of it, regardless. For Reynard, the week passed with crawling slowness; Meve, however, occupied herself with a multitude of somewhat contrived activities, and Gascon seemed to feel it was his duty as host to keep up with her.

“All day I had this strange familiar feeling,” he complained to Reynard on the evening of the first long day spent in the woods. “Then I figured it out - it’s like the war all over again, riding nonstop after that woman; how is it she never seems to get tired?”

“A little out of shape, are we, Brossard?” she asked, grinning.

“ _No,_ ” he immediately retorted, “I _have_ been on the road of late - far more than _you_ have, in fact - and therefore getting plenty of exercise. You’re just a harridan.”

Meve caught Reynard studying the Duke almost suspiciously, as he spoke. She in turn eyed the knight curiously, told herself she’d ask him about it later, in private, and changed the subject to a not very modestly delivered description of the stag she’d killed that afternoon, a fine creature which she’d felled at fifty yards with two crossbow bolts fired in succession. By the time she had finished recounting the details and Gascon had been politely invited to entertain himself elsewhere, the matter had slipped her mind. Hours later, she suddenly remembered Reynard’s odd behavior, but he was sound asleep with his arms around her, and she wouldn’t have woken him for the entire world. The next morning she had forgotten the incident completely and only asked what he planned to do with himself while she was out in the cold gray woods with Gascon.

“Try to catch up on twenty years of lost sleep, I suppose,” he said, bleakly.

Come the third day, he had stubbornly begun hobbling around the lodge with the assistance of a cane. As she departed in the morning Meve sternly forbade him to venture out of doors into the rain, for any reason. She found him on the same couch again, working his way through a stack of ancient tomes and a bottle of Gascon’s wine in placid comfort, when she returned after sunset, freezing and unsuccessful.

“No advice in those on hunting for vanishing knights, is there?” she asked, collapsing gracelessly next to him. He shook his head and replied, eyes fixed on his book, “No. However, it says here that a unicorn cannot be hunted by any of th’ usual methods, and so one must employ special tactics, to kill it. Should you like to hear about it?”

“Oh, if you wish,” she said, leaning into his shoulder; he smiled and read aloud in an unmusical meter:

.. _it is caught by means of a virgin, now hear in what manner;_

_he goes to the forest where is its repair;_

_there he places a virgin, with her breast uncovered, and by its smell th_ _’ unicorn perceives it;_

_then it comes to the virgin, and kisses her breast, falls asleep on her lap, and so comes to its death;_

_the man arrives immediately, and kills it in its sleep._

“Just how old is that book?” she asked, with no trace of sympathy for the unicorn. “It can’t be a _recent_ treatise on the topic, as virgins aren’t so easy to find for bait, these days.”

“I wouldn’t know, to be sure,” Reynard murmured politely under his breath.

“It seems a convoluted affair, with small reward,” she added, then sat up, squinting at him. He looked back at her blankly. “Count Odo, if you’re attempting to give me hints, I wish you would just say what you mean instead; I’m in no mood for subtlety today.”

“I always do, and you never are,” he protested mildly, and then, understanding dawning across his face, said, “Oh, no. No, I didn’t mean that as a - a suggestion, for your search, Meve; I thought it might distract you from it, actually -”

“In that case, my dear, pray continue to give non-suggestions at helpful times,” she said, grinning. He opened his mouth to argue, but she pressed her lips to his, which served to postpone any debate, at least until Gascon crashed merrily through the door with melting ice clinging to his hair.

“Snow!” he announced, happily, as they quickly separated and looked around for the source of the noise.

“Is there? How nice,” Meve replied, genuinely pleased, and shook her head warningly at Reynard, who seemed to be inclined to continue discourse on their previous subject. He yielded, frowning, and opened the book again. “Perhaps we’ll take tomorrow off, if it sticks.”

If any did, it had melted off by daylight. Meve stepped out into the morning, stood shivering slightly in the shelter of the eaves, considered the deep gray clouds and half-frozen rain that splattered out of them, and went back inside. Gascon eyed her hopefully; she commented, casually, that perhaps a rest day was in order, regardless, on account of the long hours the men had been subjected to, and offered to use the time to explain the newest tax law to him, since he’d missed the entirety of its debate and introduction. He quickly announced that he had a slight head cold and needed his rest, himself; she then retreated in secret triumph to the cramped interior room that served as the armory and enjoyed several hours of peace. Reynard, who had woken much later, limped in around noon and said, “I heard you’d taken the day off, but I didn’t quite believe it without seeing for myself.”

“Not to worry, I’ve plenty to do,” she replied, frowning over the pieces of her lately disassembled crossbow. He smiled and sat himself across the table from her, wincing slightly.

“Yes, so I see. Do you want help with that?”

“Not just now,” she said. They sat in silence, while she fiddled with springs and parts; after a respectable ten minutes she sighed irritably and shoved the mess at him, then sat, watching, as he carefully rearranged the pieces in order.

“Is Gascon about?” she asked suddenly, breaking the quiet.

“I haven’t seen him, but you never can tell,” he answered; they both waited a moment, but nothing happened. Meve stood, shut the door, sat back down, and said, “Good. I want to run something by you, in the strictest confidence.” 

He slowly threaded a bolt through the crossbow’s double trigger and nodded his acceptance of her terms.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said last night,” she began; Reynard smiled expectantly.

“That thing about th’ unicorn, I mean,” she clarified. He immediately switched to a frown, which he directed down at the table.

“You’re quite right,” she said, “Riding around the woods looking for a possibly nonexistent knight errant is hardly efficient or likely to be successful.”

He snapped the body of the crossbow into its stock and replied, “Thank you; I’m glad you’ve come to your senses at last.”

“You are gracious in victory, as always,” she noted, forcing herself to maintain a serious exterior despite the strong urge to smile at his sarcasm. “However, I _do_ believe that a trap would work. Don’t scowl at me. I’ve come up with a subtle plan -”

She broke off as he raised an astonished eyebrow at her, finally lost her composure and flashed a gap-toothed grin, and continued.

“As you know, the winter solstice is in about a month’s time, and the fair is to take place then, as usual. Now, it occurred to me that holding an entire tourney would be too much -”

Reynard interrupted her.

“Too much for _what_?”

“ _Obviously_ , to draw in the black knight - if there _is_ a black knight. It’d be a blatant trick. Also, a lot of extra work, which I for one do not feel like doing just now. Yes, you’re welcome; I thought you’d agree. Fortunately, we need not bother with all that; there are always games and contests held during the fair, and I think it’s easier and more likely to answer if we just include jousts with them. Everyone with the proper equipment will be allowed, and they’ll no doubt all come around to take part: knights, squires, yeomen with a farm horse and an old hunting spear to hand - ”

“And, you hope, the black knight with them.”

“Yes, exactly. What do you think?”

“Well - honestly, it’s not a bad plan,” he said. “Not that I expect it to work, mind you, but even so, the people will still enjoy th’ event - on the crown’s purse, I imagine. I suppose we’ve spent more gold on worse ideas. Will you be participating?”

“Oh, no. I don’t care much for jousting.”

“You don’t want to lose, you mean,” he said. She ignored his comment, haughtily. He passed her the reassembled crossbow; she examined it with evident satisfaction and forgot her mild annoyance.

“Who will the judges be?” he asked, breaking the momentary silence.

“Oh, myself, of course, and I believe I’ll invite that Baroness, who knows a thing or two about the sport - you remember her, from Gascon’s tournament - and think of a third, later. Will _you_ be participating?”

“I don’t know yet,” he replied, idly, “What’s the prize?”

“I thought I’d put up a charger,” she sad, “And a new sword, for the runner-up.”

“Hmm,” he said.

“Although, Count Reynard Odo obviously has horses and swords to spare,” she said, rolling her eyes at him, “And would never be interested in such a small reward. Well, then, I’ll make you a deal - if _you_ win, you may name a prize of your choosing, and I pledge to grant whatever you desire.”

She waited, a sly smile crossing her face; he appeared to consider the possibilities for a long moment, and said, “In that case, I don’t see how I can refuse.”

They planned out the details of the scheme over the remainder of the day. If Gascon noticed their uncommonly secretive behavior, he didn’t mention it, perhaps because Meve immediately launched a campaign designed to distract him. Over the next few days, they returned triumphantly from the woods with several more slaughtered deer, and spent much of the rest of their time in a series of inconsequential, but lengthy, legal arguments. Meve was stubbornly sure he was only pretending not to grasp the finer details of knights’ fee laws. Gascon rebuffed her attempts to explain them with dogged yet cheerful stupidity; Meve, of course, refused to admit defeat. By the end of the week Reynard’s patience with their constant bickering and his own forced inactivity was wearing thin; he became somewhat irritable and was visibly relieved when he was finally pronounced in good enough shape to travel.

The party departed at dawn, as usual, leaving Gascon behind with the crossbow as a parting gift, and taking Ethan along to court as a favor. The red-faced lad managed to stammer out his gratitude before subsiding into what seemed to be permanent silence. He did not grow much more talkative during the four-day journey, despite the slow pace of travel and the rest of the warband’s markedly casual behavior. Meve soon decided the squire’s habitual silence was merely part of his personality, and that it would serve as a point in his favor when, at a strategically chosen, unreasonably late hour of the night, she decided to talk Reynard into learning him his trade. However, he didn’t even try to argue with her about it, and Meve didn’t need to bring up any of her prepared arguments at all. She normally found any easy victory extremely suspicious, but it seemed apparent that the knight found traveling more painful than he was letting on. 

It turned out to be a convenient arrangement, in any case. Reynard was still mostly crippled but had an endless worklist, and Ethan was painfully eager to please and quickly fetched anything that he required. The young man was always in the Count’s shadow, after their return to Rivia Castle, from the crack of dawn until the knight managed to shake him loose in the evenings. Meve was no less busy after more than a week away, but nevertheless didn’t fail to have fliers printed and distributed to advertise her jousting competition. Nor did she miss renewed rumors of a man in black armor popping up in odd corners of the kingdom, knocking her own knights about. In fact, it soon became impossible to ignore them, as a passing minstrel on evening delivered a lengthy ballad where the black knight rescued a stranded maiden from a verified dragon - a true story, he claimed. The Queen made no comment, at least in public. In private, she grumbled about it to Reynard, who only remarked that he’d thought the ballad - all ballads, for that matter - unnecessarily dramatic.


	10. Sir Reynard Does Paperwork

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. my usual due diligence b/c some deeply programmed part of my brain can't not cite my sources:
> 
> are you interested in reading a short but interesting chapter about [the civic government of a medieval city?*](https://www.gutenberg.org/files/17848/17848-h/17848-h.htm#Civic_Life) or a much much longer primary source document listing [the personal expenses of Henry VIII](https://www.gutenberg.org/files/46009/46009-h/46009-h.htm#AN_ACCOUNT_OF_THE) between 1529-1532, a line item of which i copied and modified for this chapter? well now u can i guess, go for it.
> 
> *(there's like no easily accessible canon info about what Rivia (the city, not the kingdom or the castle) is like, but after some side reading about other medieval cities it seemed like it should be roughly the size of York vs the size of London or Paris, which were the capitols of much more important kingdoms to irl western Europe than Lyria and Rivia seem to have been to northern Fake Europe. i mean, before Meve more or less single handedly fucked up an entire invasion force and yeeted herself into international fame obviously.)  
>   
> 2\. i put a short scene i cut from this chapter but didn't want to trash entirely [ on my tumblr.](https://irene-sadler.tumblr.com/post/643236099251142656/sir-reynard-and-ethan)

In the days leading up to the fair, a veritable army of men in armor descended on the castle and town surrounding it, spending a mint of money and tearing up the grass of the green outside the wall with ceaseless practices and a few very real fights. The Baroness, who had graciously accepted the Queen’s invitation, became a semi-permanent fixture beside the hastily erected fence surrounding the field. Despite the cold, she spent the short daylight hours observing and offering opinions and guidance. Gascon arrived with a retinue of familiar-looking rogues that drew a dark frown from Reynard and threw himself happily into the endless clashes. The Baroness watched him for most of an afternoon, then in the evening delivered a detailed lecture indicating how and where his technique could be improved, which he cheerily took to heart. The result, according to his tutor, was that he progressed, somewhat, from a reasonable amateur to something like a professional.

Meve managed to keep her company often enough to hear many of her opinions. She noted bad habits and technical errors in almost all of Meve’s serving knights, with few exceptions; of Sir Odo, she only remarked casually that he yet showed no sign of losing a step, age or prior injuries be damned. She made the unusually enthusiastic comment within earshot of its subject as he offered advice to a young knight he’d unseated; he appeared slightly surprised and rode over, eyebrows raised.

“Was that a _compliment_ , my lady?” he asked, looming over the two women where they stood by the fence.

“Would you like it to be?” the Baroness replied, giving no sign either way.

“Why not?” he said, matching her tone, bowed courteously in his saddle, slammed his visor down, and rode away. Meve stared distractedly after him.

“He’ll be an early contender for the prize, I believe,” the Baroness remarked.

“Well, he’s certainly _my_ favorite,” she replied, airily.

“And doesn’t he know it,” the older woman muttered, then added, “That man has a target on his back.”

Meve returned to earth and turned an inquiring frown on her.

“Look,” the older woman explained, waving a hand to indicate the field at large. “There’s not less than two dozen knights here, and squires besides, as well as more than a few fighters who are neither. Some are no doubt here for the prizes, and some for th’ entertainment value, and others to catch a woman’s eye, but, no matter what their reasons, every man among them would very much like to defeat the Queen’s champion, make no mistake.” 

The Baroness paused significantly, clearly waiting for her to see a point. Meve, aware that even Reynard lost a match, on occasion, failed to arrive at whatever it was; she shrugged dismissively and said, “Yes, and?”

“ _And_ , therefore, don’t leave his equipment unguarded overnight, or his horse,” she explained impatiently, with a slight eye roll; she added, as an afterthought, “Your Grace.”

“Oh.”

After dinner she stared contemplatively into the fire, paying no attention to Reynard and Gascon’s idle chatter nearby. The Baroness’s suggestion - or was it a warning? - weighed on her thoughts. So did the fact that she had yet to find a third judge; a difficult prospect, as whoever she picked might not suit, or, worse, might be inclined to see political significance where there was none. Further, she hadn’t seen the black knight, or even heard anything of him, in well over a week; it was arguably the least of her problems, but bothered her nevertheless. She was jolted out of her reverie only when Reynard shook her suddenly by the shoulder; she frowned distractedly at him, realized he had asked her something, and said, “What?”

“What are you thinking about?” he repeated, patiently. Gascon stared glassily at her, an expectant smile on his face. She explained about the judge, in brief, expecting their conversation to then go on without concerning itself with the matter.

“But why d’ you need _three_ judges?” Gascon wondered, instead, slurring his words somewhat.

“Because there are _always_ three judges,” Reynard replied stiffly, evidently less than perfectly sober himself.

“The third judge is necessary, I’m afraid,” Meve explained. “A tiebreaker.”

“Oh,” said Gascon, “I see. Well, what _I_ would do is just get Gaspar or someone t’ do it, and say good enough; I suppose it doesn’t truly matter who does the job, in th’ end.”

“The joust is serious business,” Reynard said, growing somewhat haughty, “You can’t just appoint some ruffian who can’t _talk_ as an official _._ ”

“No,” Meve said, soothingly, before Gascon could react, “I don’t think he would do, at all, not to worry. However, Gascon’s drunken rambling _has_ given me a thought - I don’t really have to choose the third judge _myself._ ”

“What do you mean by that?” Reynard asked, suspiciously.

“Never you mind,” she said, casually, “You’ll find out soon enough. _Anyway -_ I meant to ask you, Gascon, for a favor.”

“By all means,” he replied, cheerily.

“I need you to assign some of your more reliable and sober men to keep an eye on Reynard’s harness, weapons, and above all his horse, until the fair.”

“Why?” Reynard asked; Meve ignored him, temporarily. Gascon, on the other hand, seemed to immediately understand, and nodded his agreement.

“Oh, yes, naturally, you do,” he said. “I’ll put my best people on it, not t’ worry.”

“Thank you,” she said, and then explained herself to Reynard after Gascon departed to see to the matter. He frowned doubtfully and began, “I really don’t think it’s necessary to -”

“I _know_ you don’t,” she interrupted, a little curtly, “It’s why I didn’t ask you.”

He fell into a slightly disgruntled silence, obviously offended; she immediately regretted her tone, blamed it on the late hour, and delivered a genuine apology, which he graciously accepted, as he always did.

At ten the next morning, she attended a meeting with the bailiff, aldermen, and Mayor of the city outside her castle walls. The Mayor was an ancient man who’d been installed in his position some years before she was born, and would not be hurried as he explained, at length, the procedures and trials of the next few days. She half-listened to his speech, delivered in the same didactic voice as always, and to the discourse that followed, well aware of the various topics that would be covered, as they were exactly the same each year for each fair - roadblocks, fire brigades, the necessity to have extra guards at night, the necessity to have yet further guards to keep the visitors out of the stockyard and away from the docks, the vanishingly small probability of snow. The Queen sat, patiently chiming in on the usual occasions to promise a detachment of soldiers from the castle and to offer the use of the stables in the courtyard, if needed, but otherwise waiting in silence for the meeting to wind to a close. There was, she knew from experience, no speeding up the unvarying process, and it was easiest to not try; at the end, however, when the Mayor, as always, asked for any final remarks, she said, “I’ve one, gentlemen.”

The room turned as one to stare at her in collective astonishment; she had never shown the slightest desire to lengthen any meeting in the past, and the atmosphere grew wary and uncertain at the irregularity. She smiled at them, professionally, and continued, “I have a small request only: the jousting event that’s bringing you so much custom this year requires three judges, but I find myself with only two; I thought perhaps you could select the last yourselves and then send ‘em along to the castle this afternoon.”

She was assured that the thing was in their power to grant and departed in secret amusement, leaving the disturbed city government in full knowledge that, so long as she ruled in Lyria and Rivia, the troubling moment would never be forgotten.

The city council sent along their choice - a round, dark-haired young woman - some hours later. She received a very dubious look from Reynard when Ethan brought her into his little office, where he sat in consultation with the Queen. Her name was Giselle, she said, and she knew nothing whatsoever about jousting - although, of course, she’d seen many a brawl, because she was a barmaid at the largest public house in the town square; she was just lately seventeen, but had been employed there since she was ten, and fights were expected and even wagered on should the combatants be interesting enough. Meve was, for once, grateful for Reynard’s unyielding sense of propriety; he grew steadily more unapproachable, but said absolutely nothing as the girl finished her introduction and subsided into silence, casting an uneasy glance at his remote frown.

“Well,” Meve said, pleasantly, “It’s no matter; the finer details of the sport are easy enough to learn. I’m not going to force you, if you’d rather not, but should you like to be a judge tomorrow along with myself and the Baroness, you’re quite welcome.”

Giselle’s face lit up; she replied quickly, “Oh, yes, I’d love to, my lady.” Meve nodded, satisfied.

“Well, then, Ethan there will explain the rules and answer any questions you have; you may go along with him,” she said. Ethan promptly turned a brilliant shade of red as Giselle turned a broad smile on him. Meve drew on decades of diplomatic experience and managed to maintain a straight face as the pair attempted to make their escape from the overcrowded office, briefly became jammed together in the doorway, and awkwardly negotiated their way out, one after the other.

“Gods preserve us,” Reynard muttered, rubbing his forehead painfully, the moment the door finally shut behind them. Meve snorted a laugh at last, perched on the edge of his desk, and said, “She’ll do nicely, I think; seems game enough, given the circumstances.”

He shook his head at her and asked, wearily, “Is it too early to start drinking?”

“It _is_ a holiday. However, those guard patrols for the town must be arranged, and I still have to review my steward’s reports -”

“I’ll bring the reports as well as a bottle, then,” Reynard decided, making for the door; she caught his arm as he passed, kissed him, and pulled away a long moment later to stare into his eyes. He blinked down at her, apparently struck as speechless as his squire, until she released him and said, “Go on, then; I’ll be here.”

“Actually, I’m not thirsty after all,” he said, not moving away. She flashed a smile, slid her arms around his neck, and didn’t argue.

Reynard _did_ arrange the patrols, eventually, but Meve was forced to put the paperwork off; there was a feast to attend, and she had no time to read accounts before it began. It had to be held in the courtyard under the moonlight, because the entire city was invited and most of it’s more upstanding citizens had actually turned up, and, on top of them, all the knights and their horde of attendants; the resulting crowd would never fit inside the great hall. Even her usual courtiers had trouble maintaining stiff decorum in the open air, by blazing fires and with an astonishing amount of food and drink in them. The Queen herself sat at a table with the Baroness and Count Odo; the Count was companionably silent as usual, and so Meve passed the time chatting mainly with the Baroness. The women waved off occasional requests to dance in favor of a detailed discussion of feats of arms they’d witnessed during tournaments and battles, until, unexpectedly, Sir Holt advanced on them out of the crowd. The Baroness immediately paused, mid-sentence, and stared him down; he did not appear to notice her pointed, but wordless, dismissal. Reynard stiffened slightly in his seat, eyes narrowing. Meve sighed quietly; she of course knew the red knight was in attendance, because she’d spotted Gaheris out in the lists the previous afternoon, but had thought he’d have had the sense to avoid her.

However, all the red knight said to _her_ was a polite greeting and a remark on the success of the evening, so far. She nodded at him in acknowledgment; he then turned to Reynard and said, “Count Odo - I look forward to our rematch, tomorrow.”

“Do you, now?” the Count replied, coldly; then, his conscience apparently made uneasy by his own rudeness, added, “As do I, Sir Holt; best of luck to you, when the time comes.”

“And to you, my lord,” the red knight said, glanced uncertainly at the condescending Baroness, and retreated without further comment. Meve glanced sideways at the Count’s distant frown and nodded to him resignedly. He needed no further invitation to quit the field, and, for some reason, the remainder of the event seemed to go on with a shade of awkwardness in his absence; her renewed conversation with the Baroness felt somewhat stilted, and the din of the crowd around them oppressive. The feast eventually ended with an inevitable speech by the Mayor, which not a soul attended to; the locals had heard it before and the visitors seemed to be unsure who it was that was lecturing them. The Queen then delivered some much briefer remarks, as expected, which received the crowd’s full concentration, dismissed them to their own devices, and departed.

An hour later, she was safely in her own private office, puzzling over a line item in her steward’s report: _paied to Sir Roger Eres knight upon a bille of Sir John Kimborne knight 153 g._ , when someone came thundering up the stairs and burst suddenly through the door. Reynard jerked awake in his chair by the fire, alarmed at the noise, saw what had made it, and settled again with a quiet, relieved, sigh. She herself had turned a savage glare on the intruder, but subsided when it only proved to be Gascon, reeking of liquor and panting slightly.

“It’s late, Brossard. What do you want?” Meve asked, looking back down at her papers. She sat back with a quick, irritated, frown as the Duke strode over, slapped a wide leather strap down on top of them, and demanded, “Look at this.”

“It’s a girth, from a saddle,” she said, glancing from it to him with a raised eyebrow.

“Yes,” Gascon agreed, despite her warning expression. Reynard stood with a faint groan, walked over, glanced at it, and said, “Isn’t that one of mine? What’s this about?”

“Look there, by the buckle,” Gascon said, impatiently, pointing. Meve eyed the area and spotted what appeared to be a wrinkle or crack in the leather; she picked it up to study it more closely, and finally looked back up at the Duke, scowling.

“It looks as if someone cut it most of the way through,” she said. “And then, what? Glued it back together? A damn good job, too; would never have noticed it, myself, if you didn’t point it out.”

“It would likely snap th’ instant it took a hard shock,” Reynard added, taking the girth and turning it over thoughtfully. “But when someone might’ve done it, I don’t know. I used this just yesterday, practicing against Roland Orlac; you were there, Meve.”

“Perhaps they did it days ago, and it was just luck that kept it from breaking, then,” Gascon suggested, shrugging. “Or it could have been yesterday afternoon, before Pug and Gaspar started looking after your things.” 

Meve swore angrily, already forming a long list of suspects: disgruntled barons, unscrupulous competitors, foreign saboteurs, domestic anarchists. Reynard sighed in weary agreement with her.

“Well, annoying as this is, it’s not my first overly bitter rival, I suppose. I’ve survived th’ others; this will be no different,” he said, pragmatically.

“Yes, well, regardless, it’ll be your last. Find out who did this, Gascon,” the Queen said. “I take attempts to sabotage my General’s equipment _very_ personally.”

“I’ll do what I can,” he assured, grimly.


	11. Sir Reynard vs. the Competition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. here's a (relatively) short n' interesting discussion of the history of the [St. Bartholomew Day Fair](http://www.thebookofdays.com/months/aug/24.htm#BARTHOLOMEW%20FAIR) in London, which was held roughly annually from sometime in the 12th century to sometime in the 19th century. I casually yanked some ideas (ull find this thing about rabbits casually mentioned with no explanation in the source) from events that took place at this specific festival to apply to my much much smaller Winter Solstice Fair held in Rivia.   
> translating any irl medieval holiday/fair/feast into a fantasy setting is a lil tricky b/c 95 percent of what happens and what makes them so interesting (to me anyway) is tied up in and totally inseperable from medieval Christian religious expression. however, when a lot of my source material was written (usually several hundred years ago bc public domain ebooks are my life) there were still some weird obviously pre-Christian traditions in common use in parts of England. more on this next chapter b/c some of them are fuckin bizarre and so ofc I ganked them.

The next day dawned cold, but the blue cast to the sky promised clear weather. The Queen had long since collected a list of names from a page, and sat scribbling figures and notes in the margins as she considered the best way to arrange forty contestants into equitable matches. Isbel proved unsurprisingly unhelpful; the Baroness, however, offered advice on the matter in a slightly imperious tone:

“There’s no way to match these names up, by perceived skill, and if you try there _will_ be hurt feelings. Random selection won’t answer, either; my suggestion is to choose from whoever is standing around when we arrive and let them sort themselves out as best they can after.”

Meve shuffled the papers a moment, admitted to herself that she had no better ideas, and nodded grudgingly.

“Yes, you’re probably right. First come, first served it is, then. Here, look after these,” she said, handing the papers over to the older woman, “I have to go; the Mayor will be wanting something from me within the hour and I’ve other matters to attend to, first.”

She left the Baroness and Isbel eyeing each other suspiciously over their breakfasts and strode rapidly away to the stables. Reynard’s horse, dozing alone in his stall, greeted her with polite disinterest; she spotted a light flickering from inside a little storage room nearby, where she found his owner carefully examining his armor under Pug and Gaspar’s vacant stares. Reynard smiled tightly at her, Gaspar glowered from under his unkempt hair, and Pug sketched a lazy gesture resembling a salute.

“Anything to report?” she asked them all, in a slightly falsely cheerful tone. Reynard glanced at Gaspar, who eyed Pug, who squinted up at the Queen through her single eye.

“Well, someone came in after midnight rung, but we put an end t’ his fucking skulking, quick,” she explained, then pointed at a few dark spots on the dirt floor. “And you can see the blood right there.”

“So you can,” Meve said, not at all displeased. “Don’t suppose you managed to get a look at the culprit?”

Pug shook her head, then, considering a moment, noted, “A tall bastard, whoever. Gaspar got ‘im right in th’ ankle from the shadows.”

“Tall, with a limp,” the Queen considered.

Gaspar hesitated, and brushed his hand against his own pox-scarred face, glancing at Pug.

“Might’ve had a beard, also,” she translated. “Hard t’ say anything else.”

“Better than nothing at all to go on. Where’s Gascon?”

Reynard shook his head. Gaspar glanced at Pug again; she chewed her right thumbnail and shrugged idly.

“Don’t know,” she said, cooly studying the dried blood on the floor; a breathless page then hustled in, bowed to all present - Pug croaked a laugh at him - and announced that the Mayor requested the Queen’s presence, urgently.

“What, already?” she asked. “All right; tell him I’ll be along shortly. You two can go as well,” she added, to the brigands, “Thank you for your assistance, and tell the Duke to report to me the moment you next see him.”

“As for you,” she added quickly to Reynard, as soon as the room cleared out, “In case I don’t see you later - “

He put his helm down wordlessly, stepped across the few feet between them, and kissed her; she took her time pulling away, despite the city government’s looming crisis, and said, “Good luck, not that you need it; I look forward to your victory.”

“Yes, thank you,” he said, somewhat embarrassed, “I’ll do my best.”

An hour later, the event was already underway. The brilliant sun pulled a faint fog from the frozen ground, and flashed on the armor of the first two contestants as they met with a resounding crash.

“Coll, and Bohault,” Giselle reported; they had put her in charge of keeping track of the course of the jousts, and she accordingly drew a bold check in red ink beside _Bohault_. The Queen nodded her congratulations to the man, who returned her notice with an answering, professional jerk of his head. The next contestants were familiar, as well, and the third set strangers, not unexpectedly; twenty rounds had to be got through, and some of the names on the list had a distinctly foreign flavor. One such man, called Devyn, provided the judges’ first opportunity to deliberate, as he and John Kimborne knocked each other down in the same moment.

“Sir Kimborne’s a proper knight, which ought to count for something,” Meve said, “And that sweep with the lance on his opponent’s part was, I believe, not quite legal, which is no doubt why he was unseated.”

“It’s hardly Devyn’s fault that he’s from Novigrad, which doubtless is why he didn’t know not to do that,” Giselle said, smiling encouragingly at the young man. “Also, I think he _is_ well, you know, handsome, for a foreigner.”

“Yes, I’m sure you do,” the Baroness said, rolling her eyes. By unspoken consent, she reigned as their chief; accordingly, when she pointed impatiently at the knight, her decision was accepted without further comment and the contest carried on. They made good time under her able command, assisted by the timely appearance of mulled wine and sandwiches at midmorning. The names and men rolled by, ticked off in red; they made it past the unpronounceably named Sicg Sicgurdssen, a group of brothers whose names all began with with same letters, Ethan, who put the third and final of the brothers down and received a brilliant smile from Giselle in reward, and as, the Baroness and Queen grew bored and were chatting idly about the relative merits of different styles of tilting helms, Sir Holt, who won his match easily. The Queen eyed him darkly and then abruptly lost interest in side conversation as Reynard appeared, defeated a man named Hall in a few passes, and departed again. The Baroness accepted the sudden silence with faint amusement.

“Nolda,” Giselle read, next, “And Sir Eres. That’s the knight, there. Who is Nolda?”

Meve cracked a surprised, but pleased, smile, pointed across the field, where a lanky woman in well-used armor stood apart from the other contestants and said, pleased, “ _That_ is Nolda; she was an Aedirnian defector, fought for us in Angren. I hadn’t known she was still here in Rivia; I thought she’d have gone back home.” The Baroness squinted at the woman, with a thoughtful air. Sir Eres scowled at his opponent, glanced hopefully toward the judges, found no leniency in their stony stares, shut his visor and rode to his place. The match lasted all of ten seconds: Nolda held her lance left-handed, at an odd diagonal angle, and then at the last moment straightened it, smacked her opponent’s spear aside with a sweep of her shield, and knocked him away. The Baroness hummed thoughtfully under her breath. 

“Unusual tactic, but not, I as far as I know, illegal,” Meve commented. Giselle shrugged and crossed out Sir Eres’ name, as the knight picked himself up and stalked angrily toward the judges.

“It may not answer a second time, but it certainly took _him_ by surprise,” the Baroness said, agreeably, and added, to the clearly disgruntled man, “What’s the problem?”

The _problem_ was that Sir Eres was a sore loser, Giselle supposed; Meve privately suspected it had as much to do with Nolda herself than it did with his defeat at her hands, but if he was hoping for sympathy he found none. The Baroness turned him away with a few blunt phrases and the contest continued.

By noon, they had only three names left. Giselle read them off in a doubtful voice: Brossard, Gaheris, Saban. They sent a page to find out where the absentees had got to, and took a break. Giselle hurried off into the crowd with a promise to return in due time, and Meve and the Baroness settled into a debate of the various methods of arranging the second round and soon arrived at a prospective bracket. The page returned, indicated a short, bearded warrior on a sturdy horse, said, “The dwarf, there, is Saban; as for the Duke, nobody seems to know where he might be found, and the squire Gaheris is injured and can’t fight.”

“I suppose, under the circumstances, that we could simply advance Saban to the second round,” the Queen remarked, frowning at the news of Gascon’s absence, as Giselle came running, slightly flustered. “You’re late,” she added, to the younger woman. Giselle flushed and looked apologetic.

“Someone had let a bunch of rabbits out into the street, and a crowd of boys was chasing ‘em,” she explained, and then, spotting something on the field, abandoned the tale and gasped, “Look!”

Meve turned and smiled as she was finally proved right: a man in black armor, mounted on a black horse, sat at the farther end of the barriers. He slowly pointed his lance at Saban, who turned to stare at the judges, baffled. Meve shrugged at him, which he seemed to take for permission; he pulled his helmet on briskly and kicked his horse toward the appointed starting position without delay.

Saban rode well, but it was obvious that he was an amateur; the black knight unseated him in their first pass without apparent effort. He stood, collected his lost helmet from the ground, picked a clod of dirt out of the visor, and shrugged pragmatically. Meve squinted at the departing black knight’s back, and said, “Well, that was - quite interesting. On to the next round, I suppose. Who is it, Giselle?”

It was Bohault and the unfortunate Ethan, who stood no chance against the veteran; he received another, slightly less congratulatory smile from Giselle, who then drew a second mark beside the soldier’s name.

“So,” Meve said to the Baroness, conversationally, watching the next combat with a fine appearance of attention, “Care to make a prediction on the winner, yet?”

“Of _this_ match? Sir Brewes,” the older woman replied promptly; the knight in question was unseated by his opponent a half minute later. Meve smiled smugly at the winner.

“Nolda seems to be doing well for herself, doesn’t she? - but I meant overall, in general.”

“Ah. Well, Sir Odo, Sir Kimborne, perhaps Sir Holt if should he get lucky with his matchups -”

“What about that black knight?”

“Oh, him? Well, it’s hard to say, for sure.”

The conversation paused again as Count Odo made his second appearance, against Sicg, the knight from Skellige. The Count won his second match far more quickly than he had his first. Meve, knowing from long experience that he had been studying the competition for most of the last round, to prepare himself, was unsurprised.

“Although,” the Baroness continued thoughtfully, as he rode away, “I _have_ seen a black knight fight at a recent tourney, I can’t say as it’s the same one who’s here today. Armor can be changed, but this one doesn’t seem to have the same style, at all. However, he _does_ seem familiar, but they all do after near thirty-five years of watching them in tournaments. _Almost_ all, at least.”

Meve was growing used to the older woman’s subtle hints, and therefore was sure she’d caught a significant note in her comments. She thought back to the tournament, suddenly recalled the Baroness’s parting behavior with a frown, and re-evaluated her previous assumption: perhaps, after all, there was no confusion about herself and Gascon, and - she realized with mild annoyance - the Baroness had figured out the true reason for her absences, one way or another, but said nothing about it at the time. The same gleam of a secret joke was in the other woman’s eye when she looked away from the field, where Sir Holt was riding away from yet another victory. Meve stared at her, momentarily at a loss. The Baroness smiled slightly and looked back to the lists.

“So,” the Queen asked, deciding it was best to not to inquire further, “Who do you think it could be, _this_ time?”

“I’m not sure; I’ll need more time to consider the matter,” the Baroness said, as the black knight returned, last of the pack again, and lined up against Sir Orlac, who had been lingering about as if waiting for him.

“They’ve fought before,” Meve said, remembering suddenly. “Sir Orlac received an unexpected cold bath, as I recall.”

Sir Orlac took his second defeat and stood up, swearing loudly at the black knight’s back.

“At least he didn’t get wet, this time,” she added.

“What a fall,” Giselle said, “Do you think he’s hurt?”

The knight _was_ limping slightly, but Meve shrugged dismissively and said, “Oh, no. He’ll be fine. Anyway, who do we have left?”

Giselle held up the list; the Queen glanced at the six names remaining, nodded, and signaled to the herald.

“This is going well,” she reflected, after watching Nolda defeat Bohault, to acclaim from the growing audience. “Perhaps I should do it again, next year, but with fewer participants, so it doesn’t take _all_ day.”

“Hm,” the Baroness said noncommittally, and then, during the next fight, “I do believe I like Sir Kimborne’s chances to win out; what do you think, young lady?”

Giselle considered.

“Well, the black knight’s very mysterious; it would be interesting if _he_ won, like a ballad.”

Nobody bothered to ask Meve for _her_ opinion, but she took no notice, as she was closely watching the knight in question and Sir Holt ride onto the field. The black knight sat dead still on the nearer side, but the red knight passed him and approached the judges, scowling. The Baroness addressed him, in a tone that rivaled Meve’s for arrogance:

“What’s th’ issue, sir?”

“I don’t want to fight this - this fellow,” he said, sulkily. “It ain’t proper.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, for one, he might not even be a knight; it could be anyone under all that armor - any man at all, or a woman, even, for that matter.”

“Heard this sort o’ thing before, a hundred time,” Giselle said quietly to Meve, “He’s chicken.”

“I _heard_ that,” the knight growled. Giselle blinked innocently at him.

“Well, your other option is Sir Kimborne,” the Baroness said, growing slightly annoyed. Sir Holt opened his mouth, then closed it with an uneasy frown, obviously unsatisfied by the alternative offer.

“Didn’t this same knight defeat you, a month or two ago? _I_ would think you’d want to avenge your loss,” the Queen noted, idly. He scowled at the reminder, clearly inclined to argue further. The Baroness turned a hostile glare on him; he thought better of it and rode away, muttering, to take his place by the barricade.

“What an ass,” Meve said.

The knights completed a pass, to no avail on either side.

“Didn’t your man Odo duel him, lately?” the Baroness said. “Can’t say I blame him, now, though I thought his behavior uncharacteristically impulsive at the time. Watch and see if the red knight don’t overcommit on this next run.”

He did, badly; instead of his usual hesitation, he drove in a rush. Meve suspected he had lost his temper. The black knight took the attack on his shield and turned it away.

“Yes, well, next time I’ll leave _you_ to deal with him instead,” Meve remarked. “It seems to be more effective.”

Sir Holt took his third run far more cautiously; his usual hesitation returned, and Meve glanced downward to hide a malicious smile as the black knight took advantage, aimed true, and knocked his opponent down hard.

“I have five sons,” the Baroness replied, flatly. “Th’ egos of these fool knights can’t compare.”

Gaheris limped heavily onto the field and collected Sir Holt; Meve looked from him to the black knight, who appeared to be watching the squire closely, a slight frown crossing her face. Giselle, meanwhile, made a bold red mark through the loser’s name and said, “It’s Sir Odo and Sir Kimborne, now.”

It was a fight that the Baroness watched approvingly, making comments to Giselle, as Meve was, again, distinctly uninterested in conversation. The Count finally wore his opponent down from sheer weariness after half a dozen passes, drawing a pleased smile from the Queen. They then broke off for ten minutes, reckoning it was only fair to let their last three knights have a rest before the end. The judges spent the time in conference, deciding how to arrange their semi-finals; the no-shows had ruined their early arrangements, leaving them with an odd number of contestants. The Baroness eventually ruled that Sir Odo, being the senior knight, should be given a free round, and Nolda and the stranger would go against each other, as a result. Meve squinted at her.

“Have you really not figured the black knight out, yet?”

“Oh,” she said, mysteriously, “I think that by the time we’re done, we’ll know who he is, one way or another.”

The black knight, however, did not appear when summoned along with the other two, leaving Nolda sitting alone at the barricades. Reynard, after a while, offered to go against her, on the chance that the third contestant would turn up _very_ late to fight the last match; Nolda agreed, somewhat reluctantly. The Baroness overruled them, claiming that there was no knowing whether their third party would actually appear. The contestants therefore settled in to wait, Reynard with a distant frown and Nolda looking moderately suspicious of the sudden delay. The crowd chattered in the background, bored and uncertain of the future prospects for its entertainment.

“How long _are_ we going to wait?” Giselle asked, five minutes later; the black knight had failed to show.

“Damn him,” Meve snarled quietly, “I planned this blasted event to flush him out, and he still somehow slipped away through my fingers. What now?”

Giselle stared at her; the Baroness sighed and said, “Well, th’ only thing we _can_ do is declare the match forfeit; Nolda will just have to fight Sir Odo, gods help her.”

The contestants were summoned and the plan explained to them. Nolda did not seem overly relieved at being spared the black knight, probably due to being confronted with the Count as a result. He himself appeared mildly perturbed by the unusual situation, glanced at Meve’s tense smile, and said nothing.

“I don’t know as it’s necessary that the Count should go against me now,” Nolda said doubtfully, “To tell the truth, I’m only here because Captain Bohault - he’s my husband - said could do better than me at this game, which I’ve proved he can’t.”

“That you have,” the Queen said, mildly amused despite herself, “But the contest has to be won by _someone._ If you’re intending to spare Sir Reynard a fall on account of his age, I assure you there’s no need.”

Nolda, who appeared to be roughly the same age as the knight, frowned, apparently unsure whether the Queen was joking. Sir Reynard’s expression turned mildly pained, but he did not roll his eyes at her.

“I have no objections,” he said, stiffly. Nolda shrugged and said, “Well, I’m game, then.”

“Good,” the Baroness said, “We’ll start in twenty minutes.”

The combatants rode down to opposite sides of the field, where Reynard sat on his horse, exchanging a few words with his squire. Nolda stood at her horse’s head, deep in conversation with Bohault; the occasional audible phrase and the cavalryman’s complicated hand gestures suggested a strategy session was underway. Meve struggled to appear neutral, if she couldn’t manage anything else, despite her continued irritation at the black knight’s disappearance. The effort became supremely more difficult as, from behind and under the stands, a familiar voice whispered, “Meve! I mean, Your Majesty! I need t’ talk to you.”

She turned, slowly, forced a casual tone, and said, “Ah, Duke Brossard. I’m glad you’ve decided to join us at last.”


	12. Sir Reynard Gives Advice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the vibe i chose for this imaginary fair/holiday is a mashup of pieces from medieval christmas and new year's eve celebrations. ofc as I mentioned before most of those were Christianity-based, but some of them had a distintly pre-Christian Anglo-Saxon pagan flavor. now my source material here is from 1827, but the author makes sure to let us know which traditions (he thinks) are older than Christianity. the book (books actually, there's 3 of them total) itself is also kind of a fun read, it's sort of a combo of an almanac/calendar/reference guide/gossip column.
> 
> a n y w a y, so, specifically i want to mention (b/c i stole them for this story and i don't want to do that without letting ppl know these are or were real traditions that real people observed) [serving a boars' head on christmas day](http://gutenberg.org/files/53276/53276-h/53276-h.htm#1649) (Essex, England, observed "from time immemorial"), [ the wassail bowl/toast](https://www.gutenberg.org/files/53276/53276-h/53276-h.htm#Fig3) (a new year custom very definitely from before Christianity and apparently present in various parts of Europe altho I don't have the specific expertise to explain why), and an interesting/weird/gruesome Christmas [parade](https://www.gutenberg.org/files/53276/53276-h/53276-h.htm#1643) (Kent) which the book describes: "A party of young people procure the head of a dead horse, which is affixed to a pole about four feet in length, a string is tied to the lower jaw, a horse cloth is then attached to the whole, under which one of the party gets, and by frequently pulling the string keeps up a loud snapping noise." This is called a Hodening and whether or not ppl still do it I don't know but, uh, i hope so b/c awesome.   
> 
> 
> also theres only 1 chapter left if u stuck with it this whole time or, idk, it's 2024 and u read the whole thing at once thanks for bothering love u

“Yes, hello,” Gascon said, pretending not to notice Meve’s displeasure. “Good afternoon, ladies,” he added, as the Baroness and Giselle turned to look curiously down at where he stood in the shadows. The Baroness frowned and pursed her lips judiciously; Giselle considered him and glanced uncertainly at the older women.

“Anyway,” he continued, an edge of urgency buried in his easy tone, “Do you have a minute to spare?”

“No,” the Queen said stiffly, turning back toward the empty lists. “I’m busy; whatever it is will have to wait until later.”

“Oh,” he replied, growing very faintly annoyed, “Because it’s about that thing you wanted last night; just thought you’d be interested t’ know I’ve done it.”

She hesitated, ignoring the Baroness’s raised eyebrow and Giselle’s uncomfortable confusion, struggled momentarily between curiosity and base pettiness, and finally said, “Yes, fine; I have a _few_ minutes, I suppose.”

“ _Fifteen_ minutes,” the Baroness said, pointedly.

“No time to waste, then,” said Gascon; he winked at Giselle, who took her cue from the Baroness and frowned disapprovingly back at him, and they hurried off.

“So, what is it, then?” Meve asked bluntly, as they turned into the town’s streets at a rapid stroll. “I assume you’ve caught the saboteur, else you wouldn’t have bothered me.”

“Well, I caught _Gaheris_ ; he may be the saboteur, or may not,” Gascon said, disregarding her tone. “Gaspar thinks he is, though, and he’s th’ only one who saw th’ intruder close up last night, so odds are good he’s your man.”

“Really?” She abandoned her moodiness in favor of mild surprise, and then asked, “When did this happen?”

“Oh, only about an hour ago. Less, even. Seemed like there was no real need for a public scene, so I just had him snatched off the street and, you know - stashed somewhere convenient,” Gascon explained, leading the way down an alley and into a butcher. The owner nodded and smiled to him as he passed through the door and headed toward the back, spotted the Queen, and instantly looked away at nothing in particular. Pug and Gaspar waited in the yard behind the shop, standing guard over a man with a bag on his head and a bandage around his left ankle. Gascon nodded at Pug and she yanked the bag away; Gaheris squinted in the light and surveyed his surroundings - two large, brightly interested pigs in a pen, his sinister pair of captors, and, finally, Meve and Gascon. He sighed.

“Got ‘im in one piece, as you wanted,” Pug announced in her gruff voice; a dubious claim, as Gaheris had a black eye and a split lip, but Gascon nodded approvingly and jerked his thumb over his shoulder, toward the shop.

“Wait inside for a bit,” he said; Pug and Gaspar departed, leaving their captive to his deserved fate.

“Now, sir,” Meve said briskly to Gaheris; if she had any doubts about his culpability, she kept them firmly to herself. “Let’s not waste time with falsehoods or denials.” 

“No,” he said, resignedly, “Doesn’t seem to be much point in trying.”

“Quite. So, explain what it is you’ve been up to, then.”

“Start with last night,” Gascon added, as the squire took a few too many seconds to think it over. “Hurry up.”

“Ah, well. I was trying to get hold of a piece of equipment I knew was among Sir Odo’s things in the barn,” he said. “The girth from a saddle.”

“ _Continue_ ,” the Queen said, as he paused, clearly thinking the question answered.

“Well, obviously I didn’t get it, since that - that thug sliced my ankle t’ the bone when I tried. Seems the girth held up, though, regardless, through today; probably because Sir Odo don’t take many hits, luckily for him.”

“No, it’s because I found it last night and changed it out for a new one,” Gascon said, angrily. “You’re the one who cut it, are you?”

Gaheris nodded.

“I knew it,” the Duke muttered; Meve waved his self-congratulatory comment away, scowling.

“When did you do it?”

“Oh, a month ago, or more,” he said. “Just before the duel against Sir Holt.”

“Why?”

He blinked at the question and said, as if it was obvious, “Because Sir Holt told me to, in hopes he’d win.”

“You did a bad job, then,” Gascon snapped; Gaheris looked mildly offended.

“No,” he said. “No, I didn’t. The girth held, did it not? Sir Odo won - or, well he _could_ have, if he’d wanted to.”

He looked at his interrogators’ baffled stares, and then explained, patiently, “Look - I cut through the leather, left just enough to hold a strain for a good while, glued it so it’d look like nothing, and told Holt I’d done what he wanted. Simple. I just didn’t have the chance to get it back, after the fight; too many people hanging around who might’ve seen me. If I had done, nobody would have been the wiser.”

Meve stared at him, torn between confusion and anger, opened her mouth, and closed it again as an echo of distant horns bounced off the buildings.

“Damn,” she said. “I have to go. Gascon, find Sir Holt.”

“What should I do with him?” he asked, as she turned to leave; she hesitated, considered her options, and came to a hasty decision.

“Just keep tabs on him, don’t let him leave town, and - and we’ll sort this mess out, later.”

“You’ll find him in the tavern, no doubt,” Gaheris said wearily to Gascon, as she quickly departed.

She nearly ran back through the streets, but she was still late; she returned to the lists to find the Baroness had started the final round without her. However, she she _was_ in time to see Nolda avoid an immediate defeat by the same method she had used on Sir Eres, but Reynard survived her trick, when his fellow knight hadn’t. She nodded in satisfaction at the display.

“Your man is a quick study, as he’s always been,” said the Baroness, as if Meve had never been away. The next pass involved no deceptions from either side, nor any displays of brilliance; Nolda blocked an ordinary sort of attack on her shield, and never touched Sir Odo.

“He’s testing the waters,” Meve said, slightly bored with her favorite’s typically cautious tactics. “How long have they been at it?”

“You only missed one pass; the foreigner’s better at this than I expected.”

“She’s tricky,” Giselle noted, appreciatively. “What’s the Count doing, there?”

There was a short pause; Meve glanced downfield and answered, “Oh, he wants a different lance, I imagine.”

The delay took a full half minute, due to some confusion on Ethan’s part; the Baroness mumbled a displeased remark about the squire’s ineptitude, and then the combat began again.

“He wants to make up for Nolda’s left-handedness,” the Baroness explained, louder, “That’s what the long spear is for. Most people don’t learn to fight the way she does -”

She broke off; Reynard’s change of weapon had answered, and he had dealt a strike that had nearly unseated his opponent; she managed to stay in the saddle by luck or skill and they lined up again.

“He has her figured out; this’ll be th’ end of it,” said Meve. The Baroness nodded agreement. Giselle looked unconvinced, but, in the end, Reynard landed a direct attack to his opponent’s helm and Nolda crashed to earth at long last.

“A devilishly difficult play,” the Baroness said, in the silence that followed. “Dangerous, too.”

Reynard had turned to look behind himself, before his horse had even reached the end of the barricade; Nolda lay still on the ground for a few moments, and then, as her husband vaulted the fence and came running toward her, stirred and sat up. She waved an irritated hand at Bohault and Reynard, who had trotted back and dropped from his horse as soon as he was rid of his lance, but neither paid attention to her gestures or her repeated insistence that she was perfectly fine. The crowd’s general din returned, drowning out their conversation; Meve breathed a relieved sigh and reluctantly turned her thoughts back to Gaheris and Sir Holt, and then - she frowned slightly - Gascon’s mysterious absence during the day.

“Pity you can’t make _her_ a knight,” Giselle said, of Nolda, interrupting her consideration; Meve’s frown grew thoughtful.

“A knight,” she repeated to herself, under her breath, watching the muddle on the field break up - Reynard back to his horse, Bohault and Nolda to hers - a vague connection, or suspicion, growing in the back of her mind. She turned abruptly to the Baroness, interrupted an ongoing reminisce on the handful of times she’d seen another knight employ a tactic similar to Reynard’s winning strike, and said, “Listen, Hilde - the black knight; do you know who he is?”

The Baroness hesitated, slightly confused, and replied, choosing her words carefully, “I believe so, but - wasn’t that what you and the Duke spoke about?”

“ _No,_ ” the Queen said, disgruntled. “No, it wasn’t.” 

“Ah,” she said, looking away toward the approaching victors, “Well, perhaps you should. Count Odo, congratulations on another victory; well fought, Nolda. My lord, you’ve won quite a fine horse, I believe, and you, madam, a sword. They’ll be bringing them along shortly.”

Any personal urgency she felt to finally sort out her ongoing affairs was wasted; the prizes took very little time to hand out, but a number of unrelated problems were brought to her individual attention as soon as the victors rode away. She sent Giselle back to her tavern with genuine gratitude for her service, dealt out various solutions, and then at last she and the Baroness set off toward the castle. The streets of the city were packed, twilight was setting in, and there was no way to hurry their progress no matter how their guard tried. A wagon that had lost a wheel blocked the way, first, and then a succession of other disruptions: a traveling comedic play about a sorcerer and some maidens, some cows wandering loose in the street, a troupe of drunken minstrels playing festive tunes, a strange procession led by a solemn youth holding a freshly cut horse’s head mounted on a pole as a banner, a group of offended clerics in its wake, handcarts selling buns and ale, and, finally, on the bridge over the castle moat, an armored knight still on his charger, who would not be shifted by man or beast until Meve stepped out of the torchlit crowd and threatened to remove him herself.

Then there was yet another feast, this time held in the hall and attended by more of the usual crowd - but, of course, with the horde of knights and sundry that had participated in the jousts, somewhat more of them than normal. There were the typical, expected customs - a boar’s head served, bowls of spiced ale passed around, a number of favors and pardons bestowed, gifts received (and given; Count Odo, for one, courteously gave the warhorse he’d won earlier in the day to Nolda, who accepted it in a fiercely embarrassed but otherwise gracious fashion) - and various other ancient rituals observed.

“I would’ve asked if you thought giving her the horse was a good idea,” Reynard said privately to the Queen, during the Mayor’s inevitable remarks, “But I didn’t catch you in time. If I’m honest it’s less a gift and more a bribe, of a sort; Ethan’s left-handed, same as her, and I thought it might make it easier to convince her to teach him.”

“There were some delays getting back,” she replied, also in an undertone, her eyes resolutely fixed on the speaker as he recited a hopeful list of future developments for the upcoming year. “This whole afternoon’s been nothing _but_ delays, in fact.”

“I’ll tell you about it later,” she added, quickly, as the speech ended, aimed a quick but pointed glance at the distant Gascon, who immediately slipped out a side door, and then dismissed the court in the exact words she’d recited for ten years, and, before her, her late husband, and his father, and their distant grandfathers, for all of remembered history.

Finally getting rid of her guests took much longer than the traditional close to the winter solstice did. As a result, it was past midnight before she made the solitary climb up the stairs to her office, looking forward to finally having a quiet minute to think. However, Reynard and Gascon - and Gaheris - were within, despite the late hour; the squire stopped in the middle of a sentence and all three men automatically turned her way when she stepped through the door. She waved an impatient hand at him to continue and leaned against her own desk, hiding her weariness behind a cold stare. Gaheris returned to repeating his confession; Reynard listened in silence, his expression drifting subtly between offense and genuine confusion. At the end, he frowned and asked, “You - _pretended_ to sabotage my equipment? Why? Why not do it properly, I mean?”

The squire shrugged.

“It’s - listen; before I go on, you should know Holt’s an ass, and a stubborn one at that. Yes, I see you’ve all noticed. Well, I couldn’t dissuade him when th’ idea came into his fool head, but I’d no wish t’ see him win a fight by such a trick, against such an obviously superior opponent. It’s not right, and, also, would be easily seen through. What I did seemed the simplest solution.”

“You _could_ have refused,” Reynard pointed out; Gaheris smiled pityingly at him and shook his head. His response drew an exasperated comment from Meve.

“You _could_ have done nothing at all, and told him otherwise.”

He frowned, again mildly offended.

“ _I_ _’m_ no liar,” he said. “If I can find any other solution, I mean. They say a half-truth’s better than a lie, don’t they?”

Reynard blinked, considered, and then shook his head. Gascon shrugged his shoulders, grudgingly.

“You’re clearly a capable man,” Meve said. “Why do you serve someone you know isn’t?”

Gaheris shook his head again, helplessly.

“Holt’s always been like this,” he explained, “Ever since he was a boy. He’s a decent fighter, but he’s too competitive for his own good, and he’s still not learned t’ pick his battles. However, he _is_ my little brother - well, half-brother; my mother married Sir Ulrich after my father died. He was a stonemason,” he explained, seeing the Queen raise a questioning eyebrow, a gleam of challenge in his dark eyes. “His name was Gors.”

When she failed to react to his admission, he continued:

“Anyway, she wanted me t’ look after Holt, best I can. He isn’t a bad person, really, he just -”

He shrugged.

“He can’t help how he is, when he’s in a mood, and when he isn’t he’s not the worst of men, or the worst of nobles, for that matter. He’s never struck a knight who’s yielded, for one, and he’s not one to steal or run villainous among th’ yeomen. And, he’s all the family I got left,” he finally finished. Meve nodded and said nothing for a long moment; she noticed that he couldn’t have been any older than herself, but he briefly appeared gray and worn down. She was, to her mild irritation, somewhat sympathetic to his troubles. Gascon glanced from her icy frown to Gaheris’s tired stare, curiously. Reynard watched her carefully.

“Keep him under guard,” she said to Gascon. “I’m not sure what to do with him or his brother, just yet. Wait - leave him on the landing; the guards there will look after him for the moment. I’ve another matter to discuss, before you go.”

“ _He_ _’s_ the black knight,” she said to Reynard, as Gascon stepped back in without his captive. “Did you know?”

“No, of course not,” the Count said, frowning slightly. “Although, in truth, th’ idea _has_ crossed my mind, but I found it - unlikely.”

Gascon hesitated, then shrugged, grinned broadly, and said, “You caught me at last, m’lady; how’d you figure it?”

“The _Baroness_ it was that discovered you, not me,” Meve said, crossing her arms stubbornly; she attempted to appear angry, but in the end managed only mild, slightly amused, annoyance. “Also, she appears to have found _me_ out, as well, incidentally. In fact, there seems to be very little she _doesn_ _’t_ know.”

“She’s uncommonly sharp, no doubt about it,” Gascon agreed, readily.

“So,” she continued, “Is there anything at all to be gained by asking you what you were doing, today?”

“Won’t tell you unless you first promise not t’ bite my head off,” he said promptly.

“Yes, very well, as it’s the solstice, but don’t expect any more favors from me before the summer, at earliest. I mean it, Gascon.”

Reynard sat down, shaking his head at them; Gascon nodded and said, “Fair’s fair. Well, then, it’s a short tale: I won that fight against Sir Holt, then I saw Gaheris come limping ‘round to scrape him up off the turf, and it all came together clear as mud, so I decided it was time t’ stop playing at knights for the day and do some _real_ work.”

“You _could_ have appeared in the joust as yourself,” Reynard remarked, almost idly, “And not as -”

“As _me_ ,” Meve interrupted, a hint of her previous ire returning.

“Yes, well - the black knight’s more interesting than I am,” he explained, with a broad shrug. “People have heard of _his_ prowess, or what have you; the dangerous reputation’s an advantage, of sorts.”

“Yes, _we_ _’ve_ heard, in fact,” Meve said, coldly. “Slew a werewolf, did you?”

“Sure did,” Gascon replied. “Or, I helped, anyhow. There _was_ a witcher involved. Like Gaheris said: half a truth’s better than a lie, so I let the former take precedence.”

“That’s _not_ the saying, as you know perfectly well. It’s _worse_ ,” Reynard said, rolling his eyes. “Half a truth is _worse_ than a lie.”

Gascon shrugged at him, grinning slightly. Meve interrupted their tangent, impatiently.

“ _And_ you killed a dragon, they say?”

“Not I,” the Duke said, quickly, eyeing the Queen’s scowl. “Th’ only dragonslayer _here_ is yourself - although, I _did_ kill a pretty big snake in a roadside inn. The landlady was most impressed. So was some minstrel who happened t’ be around, it appears; he has, uh, embellished th’ incident, somewhat.”

“Yes, that much is obvious,” Reynard noted, “But how’d he know it was the black knight who did the deed and not merely one Gascon Brossard?”

At last, Gascon turned uncomfortably self-conscious and clammed up; Meve watched him squirm for a long moment and decided, after a glance at the amused gleam in Reynard’s eye, to not to press the issue further.

“ _And_ you gave poor Sir Orlac a dunking,” she remarked, finally; Gascon looked relieved and seized on the change in subject.

“Yes, _that_ story’s true,” he admitted. “He’s not a bad fighter, at all, thought he don’t seem to enjoy it much. It took some convincing t’ even get him to go against me, actually, but it was worth the time, in th’ end, to get th’ extra practice.”

“You _have_ improved, somewhat,” Reynard observed, casually. He shot a quick look at Meve; she spotted it and broke off her intended response, frowning. Gascon either missed or ignored their exchange and said, brightly, “Why thank you, sir.”

“Although,” the knight continued, “It remains to be seen if you can beat _me_ just yet; Meve, of course, has already unhorsed you once, so no there’s burning question to be answered on that account.”

“By a trick,” Gascon said, and then, as Reynard shrugged unconcernedly, added, “Look, I only really wanted t’ fight Sir Holt and beat him, again, to prove I could, like. I had no notion of much else.”

“Yes, very likely,” Meve muttered, rolling her eyes; Reynard continued, despite her:

“Not afraid to lose, are you?”

“Of course not; it happens all the time,” Gascon said, mildly indignant.

“Well, then, tomorrow, if you’ve no other plans, let’s see how good you’ve really become, shall we? _Without_ your intimidating disguise, I mean.”

“Well, all right,” the Duke said, doubtfully, clearly wary about what exactly he was agreeing to. “I suppose I’m not busy, but - “

“Good. I’ll see you first thing in the morning, then,” Reynard said, a suggestion of finality in his voice; Gascon still looked uncertain, but nodded and then made a tactical retreat to _“see to those other matters.”_

“What the devil are you at, Reynard?” Meve asked, the instant he was gone. He stood up, strode across the room with a self-satisfied smile, and wrapped his arms around her.

“You’ve had a long day,” he said, “Let me worry about it.”

“Ugh. Fine, then; do what you want,” she said, ingraciously, leaned her forehead against his chest, and continued with a muffled sigh, “What do you think I should do with Holt? I can’t very well banish him for trying to cheat in a duel, much as I’d like to - he _is_ the sole legal heir to Sir Ulrich, who has been a relatively loyal supporter of the crown - nor can I demote him, since he isn’t one of my own knights.”

“Just ban him from your tournaments, and the rest of the realm will follow,” he said, as if it was obvious, “It’s the worst thing that could happen to a young knight.”

“You’d know better than I,” she remarked, unfolded her arms, slid them around his waist, and added, “What about Gaheris?”

“I don’t know,” Reynard said, “ _He_ _’s_ not so easy to deal with.”

“The trouble is,” Meve said, darkly, “- the trouble is that, in his circumstances, he’s done nothing worse than you or I have in the past, which makes me feel something of a hypocrite if I consider having him arrested for treason - as I certainly could, given your indispensable position and high rank.”

“Yes, a - a similar thought crossed my own mind, to be honest.”

“Well, it’s true,” she said, raising her head and frowning up at him. “Isn’t it? Reginald -”

“He wasn’t _quite_ so bad as Holt.”

“Because he was older, and the King, and no other reason. Well, and he had you around to clean up after his worst decisions. And, his sons - _my_ sons - are the same, or worse, than Sir Holt. Or were, I mean. Anseis certainly is, in any case.”

“Perhaps,” Reynard said, thoughtfully, “There’s no need to do anything to Gaheris, at all.”

“As you’re th’ one he wronged, in th’ end I think what happens to him should really be your decision,” Meve said, shrugging.

“Well, then, speaking from experience, the man’s trials in keeping control of his brother are worse than anything you might think up.”

“Yes, I know what you mean. I’ve no wish to see him hang or rot in prison, but banishment would be no curse to him, _and_ we’d have to contend with Holt still, regardless, but without a convenient manager. What a waste; were he noble-born, I’d have some use for a man of his talents, and I could more easily secure his future loyalty. A shame, to have Holt be th’ one who inherits old Ulrich’s lands and titles, and Gaheris remain a squire still.”

“I agree,” Reynard said. “However, _that_ problem only you can solve.”

She looked into his eyes, thoughtfully, and nodded.


	13. Sir Reynard and the Black Knight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is by far the longest thing ive ever written, if u read the whole thing and liked it i appreciate u. (also if u read it and didn't like it, tbh.)  
> thats all folks  
> see u next time <3

By morning, she had the answer; she leaned on the fence next to the empty lists, contemplating precisely how to bring her scheme about and studying the clouds overhead as they blew in on a damp, western breeze.

“Do you think it’ll rain, later?” Gascon asked her, coming up from behind; she returned her thoughts to the present and said, “Isbel says it ought to. So, are you ready for your fight?”

“Is anyone, truly, ready to fight Reynard?” he asked dolefully; the man in question glanced their way from across the green, briefly locked eyes with Meve, smiled slightly, and then returned to carefully directing his squire. She smiled back, somewhat dotingly. Gascon glanced at her and rolled his eyes skyward.

“At least Ethan’s getting on well with him,” he said. “Much alike, those two.” 

Meve shrugged noncommittally.

“Anyway,” he said, “Who are you supporting? Sir Reynard or the black knight?”

“Firstly,” she said, turning a sarcastic glare his way, “ _I_ _’m_ not fighting, so there is truly no black knight to support. Secondly, I am a neutral party in this and _any_ contest between my loyal subjects.”

Gascon considered a moment, then, suspiciously, asked, “So am I expected t’ believe you and Reynard _don_ _’t_ have one of your little wagers on my head, then?”

“Oh,” she said, realizing in mild surprise that they hadn’t even approached the subject, the night before, when they ran out of important things to talk about; she’d been too busy explaining the play she’d seen in the city’s streets to think of it. “No. No, we don’t.”

He appeared mildly skeptical.

“I still owe him on our last one, anyway,” she said; Gascon showed no sign of believing her. “Not to worry, Gascon; I’m sure you’ll do as well as anyone else, which is -”

“Badly,” Gascon finished for her. “All things bein’ equal. I don’t know why I agreed t’ this; I wasn’t even drunk at the time, for once.”

She regarded him, contemplatively, and then asked, “Do you remember when I knocked you off your horse, last month?”

“How could I forget, since you and Reynard insist on bringing it up every few hours?”

“Look, Reynard is - I love him very much, but I have to say he doesn’t have a drop of guile in his blood, truly. It would never cross his mind to pull a trick like that in a fight, or, for that matter, at any other time. Nor would he expect someone else to do so.”

Gascon stared at her.

“Good luck,” she said to him, turning back to the lists, as Reynard signaled his readiness from the other end of the barricade; Gascon sighed, mumbled, ungratefully, that nobody who said _good luck_ ever actually meant it, and wandered reluctantly toward his horse. Meve leaned against the fence and waited.

She would never openly admit to not really watching the first, desultory pass the combatants made, but the predictable maneuvers on display bored her, and her thoughts drifted toward the day’s upcoming legislative business. However, as Gascon discarded his lance before the second attempt, she frowned, refocusing on the field. Reynard paused for a moment, evidently perturbed by the Duke’s unexpected behavior; Gascon, meanwhile, quickly booted his horse to a gallop and covered behind his shield. Reynard’s charger had barely achieved a trot when the Duke came barreling down the barricade and met with him. To his credit, the Count was as prepared as decades of experience could make him - lance couched, shield ready - but Gascon turned the point of the weapon aside with his own shield, grabbed the pole near the middle with his free hand, and yanked himself and Reynard off their horses and onto the ground at the same time. The lance struck the barricade in between them with an echoing bang and cracked in half.

Meve grinned, hopped the fence, and strolled down to where Reynard had fallen; he sat up, raised his visor, and glared at the splinters of his lance. Gascon heaved himself to his feet and popped his helm off. Reynard’s sour gaze traveled up to his face. He shrugged innocently.

“Tricks,” he said, winking at Meve; she fought down the urge to laugh at Reynard’s expression.

“It wasn’t cheating, my love,” she said, heaving him to his feet. “It was - creativity.”

“Oh, no, it was definitely cheating,” Gascon said, to the knight’s cross, remote frown, “You win, Sir Reynard. Congratulations on yet another victory. Carry on with - with whatever it was you had planned for after my defeat.”

The Count sighed, yanked his own helmet off, and mastered his obvious annoyance.

“I was _going_ to say that it’s time the black knight retired.”

“Oh. Yes, well, you may be right,” Gascon said, easily. “I believe he’s served his purpose, anyhow. In any case, I think I’ve had all the jousting I can stand for quite some time; all these falls can’t be good for my back.”

“ _Both_ black knights,” Reynard said, looking toward Meve pointedly; she stared back with casual arrogance and asked, “Oh? Are you sure that’s what you wish?”

“I’m quite sure, thank you.”

“It’s just that, really, you’ve yet to defeat the _true_ black knight; an unfinished rivalry is something of a shadow over your record, I’d think.”

He shook his head at her. She let him wait in suspense for a few seconds, then smiled at his strained frown and said, “Oh, fine; I’ll let it go if you will.”

“Good,” Reynard said, stiffly, relaxing slightly at last.

“I don’t really like jousting, anyway,” she added, unable to resist a last teasing dig; his resolute sternness finally broke down and he rolled his eyes at her. She grinned brightly at him.

“Thank the gods for that,” Gascon said, “Else we’d have no peace at all. Anyhow, now this is over and done, I suppose I ought to go home. Although, first, there’s still the matter of Holt and Gaheris, which some of my men are tied up in; I’d like them back, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, right,” Meve said, as if she’d forgotten. “Yes. Send Gaheris to the throne room this afternoon; I’ve various matters to bring before the court, and he may as well be one of them. Sir Holt’s of no consequence; you may let him do as he will. Feel free to leave whenever you like.”

“Well - maybe I’ll go tomorrow,” Gascon said. “It _does_ look like it’ll rain, this afternoon.”

Gaheris presented himself as commanded, appearing absolutely unsure whether or not he was attending his own execution. The Queen took no notice of his existence, until the end of an unusually short session with her court, she finally turned her distant stare to him, giving no obvious sign as to why she’d summoned him.

“One last thing,” she said, cooly. “This fellow is Gaheris, the son of Gors, a stonemason; he is a dependable and competent man.”

The court studied him, briefly, some dubiously, others with approval - one Baroness in particular nodded, pleased - as the Queen continued, in the same tone, “Because of this, it pleases the crown to attach him to our service, should he pledge his fealty to us.”

Gaheris blinked, stupidly; Count Odo, standing slightly behind and to the right of the Queen, nodded once, sharply, at him. The man started a little and regained something of his usual confidence.

“I - yes, my Queen,” he said. “I swear it.”

“Kneel, then,” she said; the Count handed her a sword, and she tapped on one, then the other of his shoulders, and declared him Sir Gaheris of the Fen.

“If I’m any great judge,” Reynard said later that day, referring to the new knight, “You won’t find a more loyal soldier than him.”

“Except for you,” Meve said, blithely.

“And, I do believe that settles all th’ affairs remaining from Gascon’s tournament,” he added quickly, turning slightly embarrassed. “At _long_ last. I hope he never has another.”

They were sitting together on the floor of one of her private rooms in front of the sole window. He watched rain drip down the outsides of the thick panes of glass; Meve, not particularly interested in the view outside, lounged across his lap.

“Well, _almost_ all,” she said, significantly. He looked down at her, warily.

“Oh?”

“There’s just one more thing,” she remarked, idly brushing her fingers along his jawline. “I believe I promised a prize, should you win my jousts, and I don’t easily forget my debts, as you know.”

“Ah. So you did,” he said, and returned to staring out the window as he considered. She sat up and waited, almost patiently.

“I can’t think of anything,” he finally said, looking back at her; her heart lurched as a gentle smile crossed his face, but she maintained a sardonic tone.

“Really? There’s nothing at all that you’d want from the Queen of Lyria and Rivia?”

“No, I don’t think so,” he replied, seriously. “You see, I already have all I could ever ask you for.”

She nodded, satisfied, and kissed him; he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close; there really _was_ nothing left to say, even if either of them had any interest in talking. Gascon strolled in through the door behind them, stopped short, and noiselessly backed out again, unnoticed. Afterward, they had, for once, no interruptions.


End file.
